A WALKING BOMB

Data terrorist Javier Octavios has wired his heart to a “data bomb” that, should he be killed, would decimate the security of some of the world’s most powerful countries, including the United States. Now it’s up to Mack Bolan to keep the man alive. No easy feat, as rival factions from North Korea, Russia, Iran, Octavios’s own group and even Octavios himself are attacking Bolan at every turn. With so many targets, one man shouldn’t nearly be enough to save Octavios...unless he’s The Executioner.

#384 Cartel Clash

#385 Recovery Force

#386 Crucial Intercept

#387 Powder Burn

#388 Final Coup

#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

Cyberthreat

Don Pendleton’s

ISBN: 978-0-008-90615-3

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Phil Elmore for his contribution to this work.

CYBERTHREAT

© 2020 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2017

by Worldwide Gold Eagle, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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The explosion drove gouts of dirt into the air.

The blast forced Bolan to roll down the berm and into the pit, toward his car. He struck the side of the vehicle, then lay in the dirt, his ears ringing.

Grenades. But from whom? The Russians were in no position for another assault. Where was the attack coming from?

He crawled back up the berm and spotted a team in the field, moving in from the right flank—North Koreans. The SSD had broken the cordon and tracked them down. He racked his brain, trying to figure out how they knew exactly where to find Octavios. The man had been given no opportunity to send a coded message or make a furtive telephone call. How was he tipping them off? And why?

The North Koreans had exhausted their grenades and were now shooting at him. The Executioner lay flat to minimize his target profile, then did a double take as a cherry-red Lamborghini roared up the road...

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

—Benjamin Franklin

I’ve never had much use for secrets. Men in power use secrets to hide. The truth is a bullet that shatters every mystery. The trick is figuring out where to point the gun.

—Mack Bolan

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

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Introduction

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Toronto, Ontario, Canada

“Matthew Cooper,” Mack Bolan stated, providing one of his cover names.

“Wait here a moment, please.” The guard retreated into his booth and closed the Plexiglas window that separated him from the mechanized gate. Bolan could see the man conferring with someone on his intercom.

The big American resisted the temptation to drum his fingers on the steering wheel of his Chevy Caprice. He didn’t want to seem impatient. The man some knew as the Executioner instead waited calmly in the driver’s seat of his “for official use only” vehicle.

The car was neither as roomy as the old Caprice sedans that were its namesake, nor nearly as stylish. Bolan didn’t care. It had a powerful engine that had proved reliable in his drive from Upstate New York. The car had an added advantage, too: it had started life as an unmarked police car and still bore the dark blue base paint favored by the New York State Police. Other vehicles had given him a wide berth on his drive to Toronto.

The guard held up a finger and pointed to the intercom, letting Bolan know that his wait would soon be over. The Executioner nodded and managed what he hoped was a cheerful smile.

A person would never know from the look of this place that it was one of Canada’s most secret detention centers.

He took his secure smartphone from the pocket of his black leather jacket and called up the mission dossier. He was here to retrieve one Javier Octavios, a Greek national who had managed to create one hell of a lot of trouble on the world stage.

“He’s an odd one,” Hal Brognola had told Bolan back in Virginia. As well as being a high-level honcho in the Department of Justice, the big Fed was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group based in Virginia at a covert installation known as Stony Man Farm. The briefing had been a rushed affair at the Farm as preparations were made to ferry Bolan by helicopter to a location in New York where a suitable vehicle would be waiting for him. A weapons drop had been made at a secure facility outside Toronto owned by a Farm ally.

“Javier Octavios is the head of the notorious hacker group Codex Freedom. They’re data terrorists who specialize in finding and outing sensitive information.”

“I’ve heard,” Bolan had said, nodding. “They don’t care who they expose as long as the damage is extensive. Governments. Celebrities. Corporations. If it’s online, they can find it. The dirtier, the better.”

“Exactly,” Brognola agreed. “Octavios is currently in the Canadian equivalent of a covert detention facility in Toronto. He tried to apply for asylum at the Greek consulate, but the Greeks want no part of the mess he’s made. Octavios and Codex Freedom have made enemies all over the world. The Man himself is not particularly a fan.”

“The President can rest easy,” Bolan said. “I’ll make sure he gets here.”

“It won’t be that simple,” Brognola interjected. “Octavios is backed by a network of violent hackers who will stop at nothing to free him.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“These are not the computer geeks you’re picturing, Striker,” the big Fed stated, using Bolan’s Stony Man Farm code name. “These are radicalized data thieves. But they’re not your only worry. There are multiple government agencies that have vowed to kill him.”

“If that’s true,” Bolan said, “then how is he not dead? No slight against the Canadians.”

“Insurance. Javier Octavios has constructed a data bomb that will release to the internet classified data he has hacked from every major industrialized nation. The data would compromise top-secret security operations in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and Israel. We don’t know the full extent, but it’s likely Octavios also has the goods on the Russians, the North Koreans and maybe the Iranians. The well goes deep.”

“So they need to keep him alive to interrogate him about this data?”

“Worse,” Brognola said. “Octavios put a video online a few weeks ago. He’s wearing a heart monitor. If he dies, or if the monitor is removed, the device sends a wireless signal to the nearest Wi-Fi connection, or through its own transmitter, that will trigger the data dump. As you can imagine, some of the nations on whom Octavios has dirt want to keep him alive. Others are willing to take him out just to see what he’s managed to unearth about the others.”

“And the Canadians are just going to give him to us?”

“They’re not equipped to handle him,” Brognola told him. “And to be honest, I don’t think they want anything to do with him. Extradition has been expedited, so you won’t be hassled at the border. We’re sending you in under your Justice Department cover. I’ll make sure you have the appropriate updated credentials. We’re on the clock here, Striker. Octavios must not die until Aaron and his cyberteam can figure out how to neutralize this threat. Chances are good that various squads have already been dispatched to Toronto. That Canadian detention center is no match for a concentrated onslaught like that.”

“International assassins convention in Canada,” Bolan said.

“Something like that. Stop by the armory to list the weapons and equipment you’ll want waiting for you. You need to leave yesterday.”

Now, waiting at the gate of the detention facility, Bolan stifled a yawn. He hadn’t gotten any sleep since Brognola had dispatched him. He’d been on the move ever since.

Thumbing through the dossier, mindful of his environment as he did so, Bolan burned the faces it contained into his memory. The Farm had assembled files on the usual suspects then cross-indexed those with travel records and intelligence data. Barbara Price, Stony Man Farm’s mission controller, was fairly certain that Bolan faced at least two significant threats. Both the North Koreans and the Russians had operatives believed to be in the country.

The North Korean contingent was likely led by Choi Kwang Sik, a commander in the North Korean State Security Department, or SSD. A subordinate of his, Jang Mung-Jun, had been spotted in New York City two days ago.

There was also Dobry Mikhailov, a captain of the OMON—Otryad Mobilniy Osobogo Naznacheniya—Russia’s Special Purpose Mobile Unit. An offshoot of the SOBR, a special police branch of the National Guard of Russia, OMON troops were paramilitary personnel often tasked with controlling riots. Both Mikhailov and his known second-in-command, Egor Smyrnoi, had been located and subsequently lost by Canadian intelligence not seventy-two hours previously. There were sketchy reports that both the Russians and the North Koreans had originally entered the United States using the same airport.

Finally, the Farm had provided multiple photos and files on an attractive blonde named Sheila Hargrave and a man named Cyril Jackson. They were highly placed cell leaders in Codex Freedom—and Javier Octavios’s closest associates. The whereabouts of both was unknown, but chances were good Bolan would encounter them. They’d been looking to break Octavios out of custody so he could go to ground on his own terms.

The little Plexiglas door opened. “They’re ready for you, Agent Cooper,” the guard said. He pressed a button Bolan couldn’t see. The hydraulic gate opened.

The soldier nodded to the guard, put his Chevy in gear and guided the vehicle through the gate. There was a solid yellow line on the pavement, guiding him toward the only place visitors were authorized to go. That would be the building euphemistically termed the “welcome center” in his electronic dossier. It was here that prisoners were transferred under both physical security and electronic surveillance. That meant, in other words, that there would be armed guards, cameras and other automated security.

In theory, the facility was rated for maximum security, even for international terrorists. According to Barbara Price, the Greeks had been only too eager to give Octavios to CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service, folks who in turn wanted the man off their soil completely. “Everyone involved knows how hot this potato is,” Price had told him.

He smiled at the thought. Barbara Price was one of the most beautiful women Bolan had known over the years. She was also incredibly smart and one hell of a mission controller. He looked forward to seeing her back at the Farm when this was over.

His Justice Department credentials got him past the first few levels of security without difficulty. He was given the choice to check his weapons or leave them—and his canvas war bag with its wide shoulder strap—locked in the trunk of the Chevy. He went with the latter. No weapons, save those wielded by Canadian security personnel, were permitted within the facility’s walls.

Finally, flanked by four Canadian operators wearing Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment—MOLLE—and carrying heavily customized Colt C-8 rifles, the Canadian version of the M-4 carbine, Bolan was ushered into an interrogation room whose walls, floors, table and chairs were stark white. He waited as the Canadians brought the prisoner to him and sat him at the table.

One of the operators placed a paper shopping bag on the table, as well.

“I’ll take it from here,” Bolan stated.

“Sir,” the man who had brought the bag said, “we’ll be outside to escort you beyond the walls. Then he’s your responsibility.”

“Understood.”

The armed men filed out and closed the door. It sealed with a hiss that indicated the room was airtight.

Javier Octavios wore an orange prison jumpsuit. Ornate half-spectacles were perched on his nose and his salt-and-pepper hair was long, down to his shoulders. He wore a gray beard on a gaunt, lined face. Bolan placed his age at somewhere between fifty-five and sixty. The Farm’s dossier had not listed it because, officially, nobody knew the man’s date of birth. Even sitting, Bolan could tell Octavios was taller than average. His arms and legs were long and skinny, while his torso was barely as big around as Bolan’s legs. The man reminded the soldier of a stick insect.

Octavios sat crouched over the table, his head in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was a deep, rich baritone that belied his lanky frame.

“So,” he said, “I assume you’ll have to either choke me or break my neck. Unless you have managed to smuggle some sort of knife into the prison? I’d prefer not to look at you while you do.”

“I’m not here to kill you,” Bolan said. “I’m Special Agent Matthew Cooper, US Justice Department. My job is to escort you to a secure site in the United States.”

Octavios looked up at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. If I were here to kill you, you’d be dead.”

Octavios stared at him for a long moment. “You know,” he said, “I believe you.” He gestured with his hands, which were manacled, to the paper shopping bag. “I assumed that was for my head.”

“You’ve seen too many movies,” Bolan told him. He pushed the paper bag toward Octavios. “Civilian clothes. Jeans. A polo shirt. A windbreaker. Nothing that will draw attention. Put them on.”

“Uh—” Octavios held up his hands “—that’s going to be a bit of a problem.”

Bolan produced a universal handcuff key from his waistband, where he kept it clipped. The key was black, like his shirt, instruct-style gun belt and BDU pants. It blended completely and was nonmetallic. The guards hadn’t searched him for it, thanks to his Justice Department credentials. The soldier proceeded to unlock Octavios’s cuffs.

“Strange of them not to leave you a key,” the data terrorist said. “They’re usually so polite.”

“They probably assumed I was going to frog-march you out of here in your manacles and orange suit. But I’d prefer to keep a lower profile.”

“Touché.”

“Put on the clothes,” Bolan ordered.

“I don’t suppose you’ll turn around to preserve my modesty?”

“No.”

Octavios sighed and stood. He was at least six foot four, perhaps a bit taller. Stripping off his jumpsuit, he turned and Bolan eyed the device attached to his chest. Wires, which ran from a metal box about the size of a portable hard drive, were directly embedded in the man’s skin. The area around the contacts was red and inflamed.

“Those look infected,” Bolan observed.

“Somehow,” Octavios said, “I don’t think I’ll have time to die of blood poisoning before one of the international community’s assassins puts a bullet in me.”

“That’s why I’m here. To prevent that.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical,” Octavios said, his Greek accent light but noticeable. “I mean no offense. But you are one man. What can one man do?”

“You’d be surprised,” Bolan told him.

They made their way through the facility’s security layers without incident. Back at his car, Bolan walked around the vehicle, bent to check the undercarriage and then popped the hood to check the engine. He was taking no chances that it had been tampered with.

“Satisfied?” Octavios asked.

“Almost.” Bolan popped the trunk and gestured for Octavios to look inside. The Greek expatriate shuffled to where Bolan stood, his gait uncertain.

The trunk was empty except for the Executioner’s war bag, which he removed and slung across his body.

“You have no spare tire?” Octavios asked.

“Under the panel,” Bolan said then shoved the man into the trunk.

“Wait!” Octavios sputtered. “What are you—?”

Bolan slammed the trunk closed. He had disabled the emergency release inside—a pull-tab made of glow-in-the-dark plastic intended to release the latch from inside.

Octavios began kicking and yelling from within.

“Knock it off. It’s just until we are clear of the prison. I don’t want you where a sniper could take a shot at you until I can assess whether we’ve been tailed.”

“You might have asked!” Octavios squalled from inside the trunk.

“I wasn’t in the mood to argue about it.”

Bolan removed his Beretta 93-R in its shoulder harness from the war bag and shrugged into the leather rig. Then he put his Desert Eagle in its Kydex holster at his waist. Finally, he took the Out The Front—OTF—automatic knife from the bag and slipped it into his waistband at the two o’clock position.

Once he got the Chevy moving, he left the Canadian facility and made several blocks without incident. He slowed then stopped for a red light, checking his six and surveying the traffic to the front and sides of the vehicle. There was nothing.

Octavios began kicking or punching the trunk hood again. Bolan wasn’t sure which. “Cut it out,” he shouted at the back seat. “I’ll find a spot with some cover and we can—”

Bolan stopped. A silver Mercedes sedan was sliding into position next to him. Both the driver and a man in the passenger seat turned to look at him. Both were Asian.

The soldier recognized them. The driver’s photo was one of the images in his dossier. It was Choi Kwang Sik.

From the passenger seat, Jang Mung-Jun raised a weapon to eye level.

Bolan’s mind had time to register a 9 mm Daewoo K-7. Cyclic rate of fire somewhere around a thousand rounds per minute.

Bolan reached down and yanked his seat lever. The seat back slammed rearward, dropping him almost prone behind the steering wheel. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor.

Nine-millimeter bullets ripped through the driver’s-side window as Bolan sent the Chevy rocketing through the intersection.

Chapter Two
The Streets of Toronto

The Chevy bottomed out as it careened through the intersection, scraping the undercarriage on a hump in the asphalt. Bolan jerked the seat upright then cut the wheel to the left, shooting for a narrow side street. There were no people visible in that direction. It was early enough in the morning that pedestrian traffic was low. Bolan wanted as much fighting room as he could get. With one hand, he scraped some of the pebbles of safety glass from his lap as he floored the gas pedal.

The Mercedes bearing the two North Korean SSD operatives was pulling even with his right rear quarter panel. They were going to try to PIT him—a classic Pursuit Intervention Technique used to ram a vehicle into the shoulder. The soldier couldn’t allow that.

He slammed on the brakes and the Mercedes scraped the passenger side of the Chevy amidships. Metal squealed.

“What is happening out there?” Octavios demanded from the trunk.

“Quiet,” Bolan said. “Busy now.”

The Executioner drew the massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle from the Kydex holster. He needed a vehicle-killer. The .44 slugs would do more damage than the 9 mm rounds from his Beretta ever could. He hit the switch for the driver’s-side window—realizing, to his brief amusement, that there was little point in that—and raised the weapon to take aim.

Two more silver Mercedes sedans roared up along either side of the Chevy. Bolan judged the distance and hit the brakes. The vehicle directly behind him, the one carrying the two SSD operatives in Bolan’s dossier, rammed the back of the Chevy. That set off more squalling from the trunk, but the hit wasn’t bad enough to do more than scrape paint.

Just for a moment, the sedan on his left drew even with the Chevy. Bolan had time to see the Asian driver’s eyes go wide. Then the gunner in the passenger seat woke up and raised his own submachine gun. This one a Mini Uzi.

Bolan put a .44 Magnum slug through the gunner’s face.

The bullet bore a tunnel through the passenger’s skull and kept going, striking the driver in the right side of his jaw. The sedan broke right, scraping the Chevy, then careened left, bouncing up over the curb and into a light pole at what had to be fifty miles per hour.

An errant thought flitted through his brain—eighty kilometers per hour. They were in Canada, after all.

He designated the wrecked Mercedes as Car Two. Car One bore Choi and Jang. Car Three was the other backup unit. He would need to take out Car Three to remove the threat it represented. Neutralizing Car One without killing both occupants would be ideal; he’d prefer to question the agents if he had the chance.

He was going to need the Farm to run interference for him, too. This on-the-fly gun battle would bring police attention, and fast. Units might already be responding. He wasn’t worried about being taken into custody; his Justice Department credentials would spring him. But he didn’t want local cops caught in the cross fire. The battle over Octavios was just starting. It was going to get a lot bloodier before Bolan got the man safely to their destination.

The next intersection gave the soldier a choice. Break right and risk entering a more populated area, or break left and travel into increasing commercial real estate. He brought the wheel over to the left, making the tires squeal. The rear end of the Chevy finally broke free and fishtailed through the curve.

“Are you...drifting?” Octavios called out from the trunk.

“Quiet,” Bolan barked. He brought the Desert Eagle up and around and slapped the window switch on his control panel. The right-side windows on the Chevy started to descend.

The driver of Car Three was pulling even on Bolan’s passenger side. He fired wildly from a 9 mm Skorpion machine pistol, punching out the remaining window glass on that side. Bolan ducked low, barely keeping the car under control. Several rounds dug furrows into the plastic dashboard, but none hit the windshield.

He released the window switch, raised his arm and fired back, emptying the Desert Eagle at the driver. Car Three immediately slammed into the Chevy’s flank, creasing the doors. Bolan yanked the wheel hard to the right, away, and right again, slapping the driverless car as its passenger tried grab for the wheel. The Asian man and Bolan made eye contact for a moment. The Executioner dropped the empty Desert Eagle to his passenger seat, whipped the Beretta from its leather shoulder holster and shot the passenger in the head.

Car Three took out a series of newspaper vending boxes and rolled to a stop half on the curb. Bolan again floored the Chevy’s accelerator, putting some distance between him and Car One.

The mirror on the Chevy’s passenger side exploded.

Bolan ducked. Another impact made the vehicle shudder.

“Cooper! There are bullets entering the trunk!”

Bolan risked a glance at the rearview mirror, very aware of the high speed at which they were traveling. The passenger in Car One—that would be Jang—was leaning out his side of the vehicle, lining up on the soldier with some kind of heavy rifle. From the impact with the Chevy, it had to be a .50 caliber, something with real oomph behind it.

They were trying to kill Octavios, Bolan thought. It made sense. The data dump that would be triggered by the man’s death would do far more damage to the West than it would a pariah nation like North Korea, whose media was strictly controlled; there was no danger their citizens would even see most of the data, if any of it managed to leak past the government’s censors. Hell, most of the nation didn’t even have internet access.

Bolan thought that if it was up to him, his priority would be to capture Octavios and interrogate him, get everything out of him that he could. Failing that capture, he’d take him out to trigger the data dump. It would embarrass the West and embolden enemies like North Korea.

The engine was revving so high that the Chevy was starting to shake. Bolan saw the next intersection coming up and knew he was going to have to cut corners, quite literally. There was no way, at this speed, he was going to make the next turn. And there was only so much maneuvering he could do to foul Jang’s shots. It wasn’t easy to hit a moving vehicle from another moving vehicle. Bolan knew that well enough from experience. But Jang would be back there taking his time, knowing the odds were in his favor.

The soldier could feel the North Korean’s finger on that heavy-caliber rifle’s trigger, could feel the SSD operative taking up slack. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he imagined the reticle of Jang’s scope on the back of his head.

Almost there. He counted down the numbers. A compact hybrid vehicle was moving through the intersection, but by his eye, he would miss it.

Ready...steady...now.

Bolan hauled the steering wheel over as sharply as he dared. The Chevy all but went up on two wheels as he cut the corner, bounding over the curb and clipping a hot dog cart. The cart wasn’t open for business, and the owner was nowhere in sight. He caught a fleeing image of hot dogs and condiments flying everywhere as the cart spun and skittered away.

Another bullet struck the right rear fender of the Chevy. Bolan had no time to worry about that, or Octavios’s continued shouts for help. He managed to keep control of the car as they cut across the road at forty-five degrees. He nearly hit a minivan and narrowly missed an SUV before slamming up and over the next curb. Then they were on the other side and Bolan was again man-handling the steering wheel. The Chevy’s tires squealed in agony as they laid down heavy black streaks of rubber.

Bolan was watching behind him and didn’t see the fourth silver Mercedes until it blocked his path. The Chevy didn’t hit it head-on, but a good portion of the passenger’s-side front fender was torn free by the impact. Bolan rocked in his seat, feeling blood in his mouth as his face tapped the steering wheel.

The heavy thump from the trunk at the same time, coupled with the sudden silence from back there, could only mean that Octavios had rolled forward and struck the inside of the trunk. Either the impact had stunned him or one of Jang’s bullets had found its mark. The Chevy’s engine was pouring smoke, steam, or both. Bolan wasn’t sure and didn’t care.

He let the mangled car come to a stop, threw it into Park and kicked open his door, filling his hands with the now reloaded Desert Eagle and the custom-tuned 93-R machine pistol. The Beretta had a 20-round box magazine and a specially built suppressor attached. Bolan flicked the selector switch to 3-round burst, prepared to let the Italian death machine do the talking for him.

Car Four, as Bolan dubbed it, wheeled around to take another run at him, overshooting his position and stopping at the end of the street. The soldier glanced left, then right, making sure there were no civilians visible. He thought he could hear, in the distance, the sirens of emergency vehicles. He hoped he was wrong. Behind him, Car One was making up ground quickly.

He needed to get gone, quickly. But more than that, he needed to verify Octavios’s status. If the man was dead, the mission was over before it had begun. There was only one option if he wanted to end this as quickly as possible. He would have to force his attackers’ hands.

Stepping out into the middle of the street, consciously putting ground between him and the Chevy, he spread his arms. “I’m all yours!” he shouted to the men in Car Four. “Come on. I’m right here!”

He was close enough to see Car Four’s driver pause to consider it. No doubt the man was smart enough to wonder if it was a trick. He’d be wondering what the big man with the two handguns had up his sleeve. He’d also be thinking that a speeding German performance sedan was more than a match for a single pedestrian, no matter how he was armed.

Come on, Bolan thought. Here I am, just begging to be mowed down—

Car Four’s engine roared. The driver jammed his foot on the accelerator, sending his vehicle flying toward Bolan. Behind him, the soldier could hear Car One approaching at high speed.

They wouldn’t be stupid enough to put themselves on a collision course. Car One would be eating up distance between Bolan and Jang so that the SSD operative could get a clean shot with his rifle. They’d either take Bolan first or they’d put more rounds in the Chevy’s trunk, trying to seal Octavios’s fate before they moved on. But right now they’d be picturing what a great prize the Greek hacker would make. They’d be thinking that whomever this armed interloper was, the big man could be removed and then they could still interrogate Octavios at their leisure—if the man was still alive.

Car Four was gaining speed, headed straight for Bolan’s position. There was no way any ordinary man could survive, even armed. That’s likely what the driver was thinking.

But Bolan was no ordinary man. He was the Executioner.

The soldier snapped up the Beretta and drilled a 3-round burst through the windshield directly in front of the driver’s face. At the exact same moment he brought up the Desert Eagle and snapped off a single .44 Magnum round that hit the windshield dead center. The glass disintegrated.

The driver lost control and plowed up and over the curb, missing Bolan by inches.

The Executioner swiveled and fired both pistols into the side windows of the sedan, targeting the men inside. The Mercedes hit a storefront and stopped against the heavy stone steps leading to a used-record store. The engine was still running. Bolan noted, with relief, that the store was vacant, a sign in the front window proclaiming Commercial Property For Rent.

Bolan reached into his war bag, produced a smoke grenade, armed it and tossed the canister through the shattered driver’s window of Car Four. Purple smoke began to pour out of the vehicle. The men inside didn’t move.

Despite the ringing in his ears, Bolan was certain of it now. There were sirens in the distance, approaching his location.

The thunder of a heavy-caliber rifle brought Bolan’s attention around. Asphalt cratered a meter from his position. Jang was firing through the smoke that the Executioner was counting on for cover.

A second shot pealed through the morning air. Bolan had the range, now. He raised his Desert Eagle and waited. There was no way he would fire blindly through the smoke. He didn’t have to. All he needed was a clear spot through the drifting wisps.

He went down on one knee. Jang, on the other hand, was standing now, trying to make out his prey through the purple haze. That would be all the advantage Bolan needed.

The soldier found his moment and took it. Jang appeared with his rifle. Bolan fired the Desert Eagle empty, jacked the magazine, grabbed a spare from his war bag and rammed it home. Then he fired the heavy pistol dry again.

The barrage was enough. Jang, unable to target either Bolan or the Chevy’s trunk effectively through the smoke, jumped back into the Mercedes. The North Koreans made their escape, driving back the way they’d come.

There was very little time now. Bolan holstered his weapon, went to Car Four, opened the driver’s door and pulled out the corpse. He went around to the other side, dumped the dead passenger, and then circled the vehicle again. His next stop was the Chevy’s trunk. He tried to pop it free with the key fob. Nothing happened.

Gritting his teeth, Bolan removed his OTF knife and hit the switch. The single-edged, clip-point blade snapped free with authority. He used the heavy fighting knife to pry open the trunk, succeeding in releasing the latch on the third try. The lid went up.

Octavios stared up at him, eyes wide, unblinking.

“Stop screwing around,” Bolan said.

“You are an utter madman.”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?” The soldier put his knife away, grabbed Octavios by the front of his windbreaker and dragged him out of the trunk. Then he shoved the man toward the Mercedes. “Get in,” Bolan ordered. “Try to run, try to outsmart me, and I’ll put a bullet in the back of your knee.”

Bolan wouldn’t do that, of course, but Octavios would not know the soldier’s personal code. It didn’t hurt for him to have a healthy fear of his chaperone. The Greek sat in the passenger seat and then looked stricken.

“This seat is covered in blood,” he said, disgusted.

“Be glad it’s not yours, because that’s what they were looking to do to you.”

“I understood as much when they started shooting out the trunk with an elephant gun,” Octavios stated as the solder got in behind the wheel.

“Good.” Bolan put the Mercedes in Reverse and managed to get it back on the road. Once there, he spun the wheel and sped away from the approaching police sirens. The sedan was badly damaged, but in much better condition than the Chevy.

Bolan thumbed the single contact in his encrypted smartphone and put the device to his ear. Barbara Price answered.

“We read you,” was all she said.

“This is Striker,” Bolan said, using his mission code name. “Change of plans. Our ride is wrecked. I’ll need new wheels, a resupply, and I’m going to have some requests for heavy artillery.”

“Understood,” Price replied. She didn’t sound worried. At least, she wouldn’t sound worried to anyone who had not known her for years. “How mobile are you, Striker?”

“Barely. Can you route me somewhere in the vicinity?”

“I have a location standing by,” she said. “Sending it to your phone now. Message us the specifics of your supply needs and I’ll make sure a courier reaches you.”

“Affirmative,” Bolan said. “Thanks. Striker out.”

He pulled the phone away from his head and an address immediately flashed across the screen via the Farm’s encrypted message system. This was followed by GPS routing to the location. Bolan glanced at the map grid long enough to memorize the route. He tucked the phone away and glanced at his passenger.

Octavios was glaring. “It is not enough that you almost get me shot,” he said. “Now you must text and drive?”

Bolan’s eyes narrowed.

Octavios’s face split in a wide grin. He began to laugh. Beaming, he slapped the door on his side, as if he’d just told Bolan the world’s best joke.

“I miss something?” Bolan finally said.

“Nothing,” Octavios told him, struggling to get the words out through his laughter. “It is just that...at least my death will not be boring, Cooper. I have you to thank for that.”

Chapter Three
Toronto Safehouse

“Is this really necessary?” Octavios grumbled.

“Yeah,” Bolan replied.

The Greek pulled at the handcuffs securing him to an exposed radiator pipe in the “guest” bedroom of the safehouse. Bolan had chosen this converted anteroom off the front porch for Octavios because it served his immediate purposes. The windows were small and the room was relatively cramped. While the tall man tugged experimentally at the cuff on his right wrist, Bolan pulled up Octavios’s polo shirt to examine the device implanted in the man’s chest.

“You’re awfully forward,” the data terrorist complained.

“Quiet.” Bolan poked at the wires. “The inflammation is worse than it was this morning.” He put a palm on Octavios’s forehead.

“I do wish you would stop touching me.”

“Shut up. You’re running a fever. That’s going to be a problem.”

“Because you intend to keep me alive long enough for your government to affix jumper cables to my—”

“Yes,” Bolan said. “Do you have any allergies to penicillin, anything like that?”

“Not to my knowledge. Am I to take this as a good-cop ploy to gain my cooperation? A demonstration of faux caring on your behalf? Is this the part where you tell me you are really my friend?”

“No,” Bolan countered. “My job is to keep you alive until we reach our destination. But I need you to understand something, Octavios. You’re a threat to my country. If I can’t keep you alive, the only other option is to make sure you don’t go free.” He pulled the Greek’s shirt back down and went to sit on the edge of the guest-room bed. Taking out his secure phone, he began typing a list of supplies he needed the Farm to courier to him. He added “antibiotics” to the list.

“Then your mission is no different than the many others who want to kill or capture me,” Octavios stated. “Such as the gunmen today. There will be others, you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“I am a threat to a great many countries,” the Greek said. “And to any entity, any private individual, any person in power or of prestige, who fears the truth.”

“And you don’t care who gets hurt.”

“If a man is capable of being hurt by the truth,” Octavios declared, “then I say, hurt him.”

“So when Codex Freedom released the names of covert CIA operatives to the internet, you don’t see a problem there?” Bolan challenged. “You bear no responsibility for the lives you endangered?”

“Cooper, I refuse to believe you are that naïve. Shall we discuss, for that matter, who you really are?”

“Come again?”

“Please,” Octavios said. He made an attempt to get comfortable, seated on the floor, his back to the radiator, his right arm hanging from the handcuffs. “You’ve just engaged in open warfare on the streets of peaceful Toronto. The gunplay in which you engaged would be notable even on the mean streets of your own nation.”

“I don’t need a lecture on American violence,” Bolan said, “from a man whose hands are bloody with it.”

“You are mistaken,” Octavios told him. “You think I wash my hands of the consequences of my actions. You think I believe the data speaks for itself. That I release it to the world and accept no responsibility for the consequences.”

“Isn’t that what Codex Freedom is?” Bolan asked. “Don’t you claim just that?”

“Far from it. You’ve been sold a bill of goods by your media. By your own government. Don’t be shocked. Every single person alive is fed a constant stream of propaganda. It infects popular culture. It dominates and dictates your news. It informs your government’s foreign and domestic policies. No one is immune.”

“Except you, of course,” Bolan said. “You and the zealots who work with you.”

“Has it not occurred to you to wonder about my aims?” Octavios asked. “Do you think I want this device in my chest?”

“I think your type loves playing the martyr. I’ve met countless versions of you, Octavios. Every single one of you is convinced you alone understand what’s true. You’ve decided to inflict your version of that truth on the public at large. You don’t care who gets hurt. You don’t care who gets killed. You have your self-righteous cause, and it’s what makes you special. Without it, you’d dry up and blow away.”

“You misjudge me, Cooper,” Octavios said. “That is not the man I am. And I am very aware of the lives taken by my quest to expose the truth. I understand the cost. But then, that’s what bothers you, isn’t it? The cost?”

Bolan eyed the Greek. He took his knife from his waistband and snapped open the blade. Octavios looked, for a moment, like he thought he’d made a mistake. Perhaps he thought Bolan was going to snap and cut his throat. The soldier took a diamond sharpening rod from his war bag and began repairing the slightly damaged edge of the OTF knife. Prying open the trunk of the Chevy had left some nicks in the blade.

“Is this the part where you psychoanalyze me?”

“Touché,” Octavios said. “But please, Cooper. Is that really your name?” He waited for Bolan to answer, but when the soldier said nothing, he went on. “I know governments. I know bureaucrats. I have seen the cables they transmit when they believe no one is looking. I have seen their private emails. Messages to their lovers. To prostitutes. To enemies. To friends. I know what they hide.

“I have not held on to this information, nor used it to blackmail those in power. And I could have. The sex trafficking ring that Codex Freedom exposed to the internet resulted in the arrests of many people in power. Celebrities and politicians alike. Or at least, it would have...had the powers that be not ‘suicided’ a certain wealthy facilitator, the man at the center of the ring.”

“And you think that makes up for the people you’ve gotten killed,” Bolan said.

“Nothing makes up for deaths,” Octavios replied. “Nothing makes up for abuses of power. Don’t you see, Cooper? The only way to disinfect the rot is to expose it to the light. Secrets, Cooper. The world has too many of them. Private secrets. Government secrets. Secrets among allies. Secrets among foes. I fight for a world without secrets. A world where the truth is known. People will die. They are collateral damage in a war for the truth. But that new world, that truthful world, will be a better place.”

“And no doubt you’ll be well taken care of in it.”

“Bah,” Octavios said. “Do you think I do this to enrich myself? I have already said I could have blackmailed countless power brokers. With what I know of your Hollywood celebrities alone, I could amass an illicit fortune. Instead, I am a wanted man with a battery-powered modem stuck to my sternum. I am hunted by government assassins. My assets, those I could not hide, have been seized. My family wants nothing to do with me, and I avoid them for their own safety. Do you think any man would choose this life?”

“You’d be surprised,” Bolan said.

“I suppose I would, at that. Tell me, Cooper. What manner of government bureaucrat, even a law-enforcement officer, is prepared to wage war on a city street?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Of course you do,” the Greek admonished. “We both know you are not some functionary. You’re not a policeman, looking forward to his pension, trying to stay out of trouble and remain unscathed at the end of his shift. Are you an assassin?”

“Not on your life.”

“I did not think so. I have known assassins, Cooper. One encounters all types in the data business. You do not strike me as a wanton murderer. But your eyes, Cooper. You have a killer’s eyes.”

“I’ve seen death,” Bolan conceded.

“You trade in death,” Octavios observed. “Tell me I am wrong. I saw the results of your handiwork today. Most men would be gibbering wrecks after something like that. You were not even out of breath.”

“Then maybe you should be careful about who you poke with a stick,” Bolan said.

“I am doing nothing of the sort. I am merely trying to explain to you—a man who holds me prisoner, a man who holds my fate in his hands—that I am not a monster. I am accustomed to being portrayed as one.”

“Codex Freedom. Tell me how well adjusted its members are. Explain to me all about how they’re not monsters. I’ve seen the files, Octavios. I know who we’re dealing with.”

“One works with the tools at hand,” the Greek said. “You, of all people, understand this. Tell me I am wrong.”

“Go to sleep,” Bolan told him. “We’ll be leaving before dawn.”

“Not in that wrecked Mercedes, I hope.”

“Heated seats,” Bolan quipped. “Power everything. What’s not to like?”

“Now you are trying to be funny. It doesn’t suit you. How am I to sleep handcuffed to the radiator?”

“Try.”

“You could at least move me to the bed.”

“Nothing to cuff you to,” Bolan said. The bed in the room was a simple mattress on top of a folding spring-lattice platform, the kind of thing a person could buy online and have delivered. The Farm had access to a network of safehouses throughout the world. The locations were short on extras. “Besides,” Bolan added, “I’m sleeping there. Now shut up. I have a roll of duct tape with your name on it if you can’t be quiet.”

Octavios, to his credit, said nothing more.

Bolan switched off the lights and remained standing for several minutes, waiting for his eyes to adjust. In the darkness, Octavios looked up at him.

“Do you...sleep standing up, like some sort of farm animal?”

“I told you to go to sleep.”

“What are you doing, Cooper?”

“Proving a theory,” Bolan said. He went to the twin-size bed and eased onto it, sitting up. His Beretta was in its shoulder holster; his Desert Eagle on his hip. He still wore his war bag across his chest. It wasn’t exactly the most comfortable way to grab a night’s sleep, sitting up and fully dressed, still wearing his combat boots.

“Your clothes give you away, incidentally,” Octavios said in the darkness. “Black cargo pants that might be BDUs. A jacket and black turtlenecked shirt tailored for utility. Boots that might as well be military-issue. You are wearing a uniform without the uniform, Cooper. You are some sort of soldier. Special Forces? National Security Agency? I will find out eventually. And when I do, the world will know the truth.”

“If you don’t stop talking,” Bolan said, “I’m going to knock you out with the butt of my gun. Then duct tape your mouth.”

Octavios made a scoffing noise but said nothing else.

Bolan, of course, had no intention of sleeping. He was indeed proving a point to himself. He theorized that this safehouse was anything but safe. There was something very shady about the fact that the North Koreans had acquired them immediately after they’d left the Canadian facility.

The simplest explanation was that the SSD operatives had staked out the location and then waited for Bolan to exit. But how would they have known which car to attack? The soldier had made sure to put Octavios in the trunk for that very reason. He would have been just one of several people coming and going from that location.

There was the possibility of leaks, yes. The SSD might have a connection on the inside who’d told them what day the Greek was scheduled to leave. But even the Canadians hadn’t known when, precisely, to expect Bolan. And unless the North Koreans had intended to attack every single car leaving the facility until they got one that happened to contain Octavios, that theory didn’t hold up.

Not only had they known which car to attack, but they’d known Octavios was concealed in the trunk. They’d deliberately targeted him for assassination. Had they merely been trying to take down Bolan, they wouldn’t have wasted bullets on the trunk of the car. Yes, they could have assumed Octavios was in the trunk, since the man wasn’t visible in the Chevy’s passenger compartment...but again, how could they have known which car to attack at all?

Just how good was North Korean intelligence? Matthew Cooper, and various men with Bolan’s face, going by different names, were probably in dossiers around the world. The soldier got around, and he had upset more than a few apple carts internationally. But it was still far too convenient a coincidence.

No, somebody had intel on Octavios’s whereabouts. They’d tracked him in some way. And if they’d been tracking him on the way out of the detention facility, they were still tracking him now.

Which was why Bolan was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He’d never expect Octavios to get a good night’s sleep handcuffed to a radiator. He was many things, but he wasn’t cruel. He simply needed the man out of the way for whatever was about to happen, so he’d secured him.

Now he was waiting for the hammer to fall.

What would be truly interesting, not to mention informative on this mission, would be to identify who it was that came for Octavios. There were multiple state actors interested in what happened to the hacker. North Korea might be content to watch the world burn, trusting that whatever came out would be worse for the United States and its allies than for its supreme leader. The big American wasn’t sure where some of the other individuals in his dossier came down. The Russians could break either way.

Over the years, Bolan had contended with the Russians countless times. Theirs was a particularly no-nonsense attitude. He’d faced Russian operatives ranging from sadistic to sympathetic, but one thing characterized them all: practicality. He imagined that they’d capture Octavios if it was reasonably convenient to do so, but they’d be content to force the issue by killing him. It would at least prevent him from any future attacks on their nation.

Then again, there was nothing to say that Codex Freedom would cease operations without Octavios. He might be the leader and the founder of the group, but according to Bolan’s dossier, it had a typical terrorist cell structure. That meant that components would operate independently of one another. Taking down one cell, even the leader, wouldn’t necessarily prevent the others from carrying out more data attacks and releases of sensitive information.

It was a wonder that Octavios hadn’t been assassinated before. The man had obviously known to take steps against that eventuality. You couldn’t go around making enemies of the most powerful nations in the world without expecting repercussions. But it wasn’t the huge nations like the United States that were the primary threat. Even the Russians, the Israelis, and other major powers were constrained by at least the veneer of law and regulation. All nations might eliminate certain threats, might engage in “black ops” and “wetwork”...but it was the smaller nations, nations like North Korea, that posed the most direct threat of action. They weren’t held back by the same considerations. They also didn’t care how they looked on the world stage.

North Korean operatives armed with automatic weapons on the streets of Toronto was another issue entirely. Bolan would detail the entire matter to Hal Brognola at the Farm when he was debriefed. Then the big Fed would take up the matter with State and with the Canadians. There would be fallout, for sure. The West might even levy more sanctions on the North Koreans. But the average person would never hear of it. All of these things happened behind the scenes.

Bolan was glad he didn’t have Brognola’s job. The Justice man handled the swamp that was Wonderland. Mack Bolan, meanwhile, dealt with the real world, with the direct action of bullets and their trajectories. He much preferred that sort of combat to the tooth-and-nail struggle in Washington. It was a wonder Brognola had managed in that mess for as long as he had.

Bolan allowed his breathing to slow. Enough time had passed. He wanted Octavios to believe “Matthew Cooper” was asleep. He breathed deeply for five minutes, by his count. His sense of time had always been accurate.

The jingle of the handcuffs alerted him to the fact that Octavios was up to something. The tall man was trying to wriggle free. He might have hidden a tool or key on him; it didn’t take much to pop a handcuff loose. Or he might have the flexibility needed to squeeze his hand through the cuff. Bolan hadn’t locked them as tightly as possible because he’d wanted to see what Octavios would do.

The sound of the cuff snapping open was unmistakable.

So was the sound of the front door of the safehouse being kicked in.

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