KILL COMMAND

A CIA black-ops team and their cutting-edge drones are destroyed in a mysterious plane crash. Suddenly, world leaders and innocent victims are being assassinated one by one...by similar drones. To find the shadowy enemy, Mack Bolan must outgun and outfight mercenary defense contractors, terrorists and deep-cover traitors. But when the president of the United States becomes the next target, the Executioner races against the clock to bring the masterminds’ reign of slaughter to a killer end!

#375 Salvador Strike

#376 Frontier Fury

#377 Desperate Cargo

#378 Death Run

#379 Deep Recon

#380 Silent Threat

#381 Killing Ground

#382 Threat Factor

#383 Raw Fury

#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

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Stealth Assassin

Don Pendleton

ISBN: 978-1-474-09654-6

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Michael Newton for his contribution to this work.

Stealth Assassin

© 2019 Harlequin Enterprises Limited

Published in Great Britain 2019

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.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2019-05-28

Bolan clutched the grenade in his right hand.

Walking nonchalantly toward the group of gunners at the front of the building, he kept his head down, shooting quick glances to his right and to his left as he passed each room.

As he reached the halfway point, one of the terrorists looked up and shouted something in Arabic. His comrades dived for their AK-47s.

The Executioner released the grenade’s safety lever and began his count. With two seconds to go, he cocked his arm and threw the bomb, which sailed down the hallway as he ducked into one of the archways. A flash of light, then the deafening explosion a second later burst by him. He raised his rifle and slid around the corner, sending a series of short bursts into the men strewed about the room.

Satisfied that all were down, Bolan keyed his mic. “Jack, eight friendlies in the basement, with unknown number of hostiles. Back my play.”

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

—Sun Tzu, The Art of War

The leader or the hired guns—it doesn’t matter to me. All evildoers will take responsibility for their actions and face their judgment. Count on it.

—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

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

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The Gulf of AdenNear the southern coast of Yemen

A few hundred feet below, the water looked black, while the night sky was stained a variant shade of ebony. They were coming in low and fast. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, peeled back the Velcro strap covering the face of his watch and checked the time: 0334. They were close to their estimated target time. Everything was proceeding well.

This mission had a bit of déjà vu and also more than a little irony. The man they were on the way to capture had been a prisoner in Guantanamo this time last year. Erroneously released as part of a prisoner exchange, the bureaucratic slip-up was suddenly discovered when Ali Sharif was purportedly observed playing an active role in a planned chemical weapons attack against Saudi Arabia. This sent the State Department scrambling to stop Sharif before the attack against the kingdom could be carried out, thus resulting in another can of worms being popped open in the volatile area. Of course, any open involvement by the United States would result in another round of histrionics at the UN, the standard condemnations of American interference, both in the US and around the world, and so forth. Thus, a key player in the Justice Department, Harold Brognola, was asked by the President to utilize his clandestine resources to make a field adjustment, and hopefully recapture or exterminate Sharif before anyone took real notice that he was back in the arena fighting his jihad.

As far as the mission objectives, recapture or extermination, Bolan was leaning toward the latter since the first attempt at intelligence gathering and reprogramming had been so successful.

Bolan needed a team for this mission, but Able Team and Phoenix Force had their own missions. As well as Jack Grimaldi, five young men, all former blacksuits based at Stony Man Farm, had been tapped to assist the Executioner: Elvan Johnson, Romeo Vargas, Dennis Washington, Frank Doerr and Terry Miller. They all had previous military experience in Iraq and had Ranger training, but not all had seen the brutal door-to-door combat of the early days of the war. And none had been on a special operation of this magnitude and complexity before.

Allegedly, no special ops teams were currently available, or were already encumbered with a crisis of their own in the area, and current intel had indicated that an attack was imminent. That was why Bolan had been called in for this one. But the Executioner had his own doubts. The bureaucratic bungling that had resulted in Ali Sharif’s premature release meant that somebody somewhere down the line would be held accountable. Or so it should be. If, however, a team could quietly recapture the errant jihadist, and he could be surreptitiously returned to his cell at Guantanamo, the whole matter could be put to rest. Like sweeping a pile of dust under the rug and pretending nobody would notice the bump. So this “reapprehension,” as Department of Defense liaison officer Kevin McCarthy had put it in their briefing aboard ship “...has to be a surgical strike conducted with the utmost care and precision due to the exigent circumstances, along with an accompanying plausible deniability factor.”

Plausible deniability, Bolan thought. Every bureaucrat’s trump card.

Failure was not an option because it never happened.

The repetitive noise of the slicing rotor blades and the cool intake of the sea air made conversation inside the Black Hawk impossible, so Bolan adjusted the fit of his ear mic and switched the frequency so he could talk exclusively to Grimaldi.

“How far, Jack?” Bolan asked.

“All the way, Striker,” Grimaldi answered, repeating the old airborne refrain with a chuckle.

Bolan allowed himself a rare smile as he waited.

Seconds later the Stony Man pilot spoke again. “We’re about three minutes out. And the last report from our limited, myopic eye-in-the-sky showed no activity.”

“Roger that,” Bolan said, amused by his partner’s pejorative description of the drone surveillance aircraft. Grimaldi considered himself a top-notch pilot for virtually any type of aircraft, but held a special disdain for the unmanned variety.

Bolan, on the other hand, had developed a healthy respect for the drones and recognized the advantages and capabilities they brought to the battlefield, not the least of which was they could provide a lot of information and firepower without a lot of risk. He’d been in enough combat situations to know that you had to grab every advantage you could get.

He switched back to the team frequency. “Three minutes. Then we’re on the ropes.”

Five heads nodded in unison. Despite the cool sea air rushing in through the open doors, Bolan could smell the adrenaline-laced sweat.

“Approaching drop point,” Grimaldi said over their radios.

Bolan moved to the edge of the door, adjusted his tight-fitting leather gloves and picked up the thick rope. The others did the same. They felt the Black Hawk cant to the left and angle downward. Outside the night sky was still black, but traces of stone buildings dotted the terrain, punctuated by the occasional winking of a light. Other than that, the remnants of the ancient city below were almost totally dark.

When the helicopter’s movement slowed to a stop, Grimaldi’s voice echoed in their earpieces once again.

“Okay, ladies, all ashore who’s going ashore.”

Bolan tossed the coiled rope through the door and followed it down.

He swiveled on the rope to give himself a better view of the target destination. It was an old fort, or rather the remnants of one from the long-lost days of British colonialism in this part of Yemen, set along the sloping embankment of one of the rising hills that overlooked the coast. Not far away, the seaport had once been one of the busiest in the world, but of late had been practically abandoned as the region continued its downward spiral. Bolan hit the uneven, rock-covered ground seconds later and assumed a prone position several feet away. The jutting rocks poked into his torso, making the position uncomfortable, but in combat, comfort was the rarest of luxuries. He heard the grunts of the others as they touched down as well, and heard the faint click of Grimaldi’s mic as the helicopter disappeared into the darkness.

Bolan did a quick equipment verification check, then glanced at his watch again and marked the time. The Stony Man pilot had enough fuel to circle for twenty minutes before heading back to the landing zone to pick them up. That meant they had to get moving. Their pinpoint placement on a slightly higher elevation gave them the initial advantage of the high ground. Taking out his night-vision goggles, he quickly surveyed the area, centering on the stone tower of the old fortress and the missing sections in the deteriorating wall that surrounded it.

The intelligence-gathering drones had provided them with comprehensive and detailed pictures of the area. But the flat, two-dimensional images didn’t provide an exact, three-dimensional perspective. He saw now that the tapering angle was sharper than he’d anticipated. It would slow them down a tad, but at least the heat and humidity had abated due to the darkness. It was still far from pleasant, however, and each of them was wearing level 4 body armor and Kevlar helmets. Bolan could already feel himself starting to sweat from only this mild exertion.

No movement was discernible. Johnson, the highest-ranking team member, crawled up next to Bolan.

“How’s it look, sir?”

Bolan was not in the military anymore and had never been an officer, thus the salutation was inappropriate. He didn’t bother to correct him.

“The decline’s steeper than expected.” He kept his voice at a whisper. “We’ll have to take extra care.”

“Roger that.”

“But it looks pretty quiet so far,” Bolan said, still keeping his tone low. “Hopefully, they didn’t hear the chopper.”

He knew they had to operate on that assumption, but the specter of an ambush was always a possibility.

“Everybody’s good to go,” Johnson said. “Doerr’s setting up as sniper with the Barrett.”

Bolan nodded and motioned for the rest of them to get moving. He regretted not giving Doerr a spotter, but there was no choice. They’d gone through several rehearsals of movement and room-clearing drills aboard the navy ship, but rehearsals, especially in confined area, were no substitute for the real thing.

At least they had the hope that their adversaries didn’t possess much in the way of night-vision capabilities.

Their quick insertion to the area above the fortress meant a downward trek to the long wall, and offered them the best chance of surprise. Bolan rose to a crouch and swung his M4 around so it hung in front of him, ready to go if needed. Indicating with arm signals for the rest of the team to assume the appropriate staggered intervals, they melted into the darkness along the stark rise. The rocky ground made for slow going until they came to a stretch devoid of stubborn shrubbery and errant rocks. Maintaining his forward movement, Bolan lifted his night-vision goggles once more and made another check of the structure. He saw nothing that indicated enemy movement. With a little luck, they would reach the wall in three to four minutes.

They reached the first portion of the crumbing barrier and paused for another perimeter check and a sitrep with Doerr.

“Everything’s looking quiet so far,” Doerr radioed. “There appears to some kind of vehicle parked under the overhang on the north side.”

“What type of vehicle?” Bolan asked.

“Unknown at this time. Possibly a pickup truck.”

Bolan acknowledged, told him to maintain observation and motioned the team forward. He estimated that they were more than a few minutes behind schedule, which meant they had to pick it up. They got to the edge of the wall, and the angular confines of the fortress lay about fifty feet away.

The fort had been constructed of mud and stone, and Bolan thought it had to have once shone a bright yellow in the midday sun. But that had probably been close to a century ago. Years of neglect and sand and wind had etched a pitted surface into the stones and mortar. Several sections of the wall had worn away, leaving piles of jagged and uneven rocks that slowed their progress.

The grinding noise of a vehicle engine starting mixed with another milder, but continuous, droning that pierced the stillness of the night.

Bolan raised his fist, signaling a full stop. He listened. The engine caught and settled into a rough idle. The sound was loud and deep, like a truck.

Voices, speaking in Arabic, were audible among the rumbling piston noise. Twin beams of headlights illuminated the darkness perhaps forty feet away, and Bolan saw the flat, macadamized surface of the winding road he’d seen depicted in the drone photos. The front end of a quarter-ton pickup truck pulled forward from the pillars of an overhang, its headlights washing over the curving dirt road. He raised the night-vision goggles to his eyes and pressed the button to enlarge the image. The bed of the truck was covered by a black tarp, so the contents could not be seen. From the look of it, the vehicle was heavily laden with something. It swung around and began driving away from the fortress. He was unable to tell how many occupants were inside.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Jack, we’ve got a pickup moving away from the target. Possibly moving southeast toward the seaport road.”

“Roger that. Want me to light ’em up?”

“Negative. We’re not sure who it is. See if you can swing back and maintain surveillance.”

Grimaldi answered with a click.

The chopper would use up more fuel, so that meant the time factor had just been diminished. Bolan pointed to the entrance and began a rapid, but cautious trek toward the archway from which the truck had come. What intelligence they’d gotten indicated that Sharif had come into possession of a stockpile of sarin nerve gas, most likely from one of the factions in Syria. If he planned to use it again to launch an attack against the Saudis, some or all of it could be in that pickup. Or it could be unrelated. Bolan was willing to bet on the former rather than the latter, and wasn’t going to take any chances. He’d instruct Grimaldi to take the pickup out as soon as they’d finished the interior work. He had to be certain that Sharif was definitely accounted for, if possible, and the sound of a missile taking out the truck would surely sound the alarm inside the fortress.

He motioned for Johnson and Washington to move down the slope first, angling toward the perpendicular wall of the jutting building that was adjacent to the archway. Bolan then followed with Vargas and Miller behind him. Johnson was at the edge now and took a quick peek. He held up his left hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Bolan stopped behind Washington and patted the man’s shoulder. The ranger repeated the contact on Johnson’s arm and he moved around the corner with Washington taking his place. Once Johnson had secured his position at the next cover point, the others followed, two at a time in rapid, yet stealthy, movements.

Bolan saw the archway extended a good twenty yards or so along the front of the building, then abruptly ended in an immense pile of stones. He could also see a large opening on the right side that led into the building itself. Light shone around the top and bottom of a long, black curtain that was perhaps twenty feet long. The stuttering, whining sound of a portable generator could be heard within the confines of the structure.

Bolan took the lead and went to the curtain, crouching and peeling back the edge. It was made of a black, silky material, almost like a dark parachute, and suspended from a metallic pipe wedged in between the stones. Inside he saw a group of ten men sitting around smoking, and drinking from tin cups. A bronze kettle, tea most likely, was on a nearby stove. The generator sat in the far corner, and three large lights illuminated the room. Beyond them the room narrowed into a corridor perhaps twenty feet wide which extended into darkness. A gray forklift was parked off to the side, and next to it stacks of what appeared to be wooden pallets. Bolan recognized one of the men as Ali Sharif. The man rolled a swath of greenish leaves into a ball and stuck it in his mouth.

Khat, no doubt, Bolan thought.

He knew the drug was omnipresent in Somalia, and frequently used in Yemen, as well. The substance induced an amphetamine-like energy, but also dulled the senses and could make the user both paranoid and jumpy. Each man had an AK-47 across his lap or within easy reach. This wasn’t going to be a simple extraction after all.

Two single wooden pallets sat on the floor to the left of the group. Each one contained a braced, vertical row of white-tipped artillery shells with “GB Gas 105 mm” stenciled across the front. That was the NATO designation for sarin gas. Bolan counted the shells. Twenty on each pallet.

Intel had estimated that Sharif was in possession of between sixty and eighty. This appeared to be half of them. Bolan wondered if the departing truck held the rest, but there was no time to try to verify that. Grimaldi was definitely going to have to knock it out. He moved back and briefed the others on what he’d seen.

“I’m going to instruct the Black Hawk to take out that pickup in two minutes,” he whispered. “It’s most likely loaded with sarin artillery shells. The rest of them appear to be spread out inside on two pallets. We’ve got no time for any more surveillance, or stealth. Sharif’s inside, third man on the left, and he’s got nine buddies with him. They’re all armed with AKs and are chewing on khat.”

The faces of the four men remained grim.

“Ordinarily, I’d flip them a grenade,” Bolan said. “But we can’t afford to set off that nerve gas or we’ll all be facing a very unpleasant end. So you three move to the far end.” He pointed at Johnson, Washington and Miller. “Vargas and I will hit them first. Controlled fire, aim high, avoid hitting those gas shells or it’s all over.”

“Can’t we just back off and call in an airstrike?” Miller asked.

Bolan shook his head. “No time.”

“How about the Black Hawk?” he suggested.

“He’s got enough to do, and I don’t want to take the chance of his rotors stirring up any gas blowback. It’s up to us to take this stuff out. It’s a binary gas delivery system, so unless the rupture plate inside the shell separating the two gases is broken, the gas won’t be lethal.”

Miller grimaced, then nodded quickly.

“What about Sharif?” Johnson whispered.

Bolan considered that. He had a Taser that they hoped to use to stun the terrorist so he could be brought back alive, as ordered, but his first responsibility was to accomplish the mission and bring his men back safely.

“Let’s see how it plays out,” he said. “Chances of taking him alive are slim, and I’m not about to announce ourselves and ask him to surrender. If we can, we’ll recover fingerprints and DNA for identification, but our survival and the destruction of the sarin are our first priorities here.”

The men nodded again and spread out to approach the curtain from either side. Bolan crept back to the right side and adjusted his select lever to full-auto. He waited a few more seconds to give the others a chance to get into position, but then, fate intervened.

The curtain was ripped back just as Johnson was making his way across. The Arab’s face registered initial shock, but then the man shouted something and his comrades sprang for their weapons. One of them, whose weapon was on his lap, reacted swiftly and sent a deadly spray from his rifle. Johnson twisted in the air and crumpled to the ground.

Bolan shot the man firing the AK-47 first, and then the one at the curtain. As the guy dropped to the ground, the Executioner kicked his adversary’s weapon away, then ducked back behind cover and sent a short burst into one of the other gunners. Three of the Arabs crouched behind the forklift, and the others attempted to run for the far side of the room, away from the stockpile of gas-filled artillery shells. Using controlled fire and quick target acquisition, Bolan picked off three more of the fleeing terrorists. That left four more, including Sharif.

Johnson lay in the center of the gravel expanse. Bolan tapped his helmet directing the others to provide cover fire. He then moved toward Johnson, firing his weapon on full-auto as he ran. The others sent a blistering volley toward the jihadists hiding behind the forklift. As Bolan grabbed his Johnson’s vest handle, several rounds zipped by him. He sent a spray of bullets in the enemy’s direction and began dragging his injured comrade toward the protection of the stone archway. Vargas stepped out and grabbed Johnson’s arm and pulled. More bullets bounced around them as they yanked the man to temporary safety.

“See how bad he’s hit,” Bolan told Vargas. His voice sounded distorted and far away, despite the specially designed earplugs that blocked all sudden noise in the dangerous decibel range. The Executioner then reloaded and made another assessment. Two adversaries were still crouched behind the forklift. Two more, one of them Sharif, were running down a long corridor into the darkness going deeper into the building. Bolan concentrated his aim on the farthest man by the forklift and fired. The man ducked back, the rounds generating sparking flashes against the metallic cover. The closest man glanced around, then stood up. He raced forward, shouting in Arabic while turning and firing his weapon at the pallets containing the shells.

“The son of a bitch’s trying to set off the gas!” Miller shouted.

The other Arab’s eyes widened, and he got up and began to run.

The Executioner zeroed in on the shouting terrorist and fired. The man’s head jerked back, then he collapsed to the ground. Miller sighted on the back of the running man and squeezed off a burst, sending him sprawling, face-first to the ground.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Doerr, sitrep.”

“Still at my post, sir. Looks like a hell of a firefight.”

“Keep alert for any reinforcements. Johnson’s down. We’re going inside.” Without waiting for a reply, Bolan motioned for Washington to accompany him, leaving Vargas and Miller at the opening. “Set some charges on these shells. We’ll be back.”

They moved cautiously down the long corridor, cognizant that an ambush most probably awaited them at some point. Bolan took the lead. The residual light from the generator had completely faded, and he flipped down his night-vision goggles again. The area in front of him immediately materialized in a profusion of clear, green luminosity. Scanning the corridor, he saw one man crouching next to a stone abutment on the left aiming his AK-47 at them. Sharif had positioned himself on the other side of the corridor on his partner’s left. He was ensconced behind crumbled sections of large stones. Both men were obviously without night-vision assistance and most likely were relying on sound to locate their next targets.

Bad mistake, Bolan thought.

He fired a quick burst and zippered the first gunner’s chest. As the man fell, the Executioner quickly shifted to his left, flattening against the wall and far from the center of the corridor, anticipating that Sharif would fire at the last muzzle-flashes.

He didn’t disappoint.

A series of bright wisps of flames ignited in Bolan’s green-tinged viewfinder. Seconds later the definitive green world returned to its previous clarity, providing the Executioner with a clear vision of Sharif’s grimly twisted face. Bolan sent another burst into the man’s chest.

Sharif’s body jerked like an errant marionette whose strings had been severed, and he crumpled into a heap. Bolan moved forward at an oblique angle, as Washington moved in from the other side, stepping on the barrel of the first Arab’s weapon then pulling it free.

Bolan rolled Sharif over. Blood poured from the chest wounds.

“You are too late, infidel,” he said, the blood spraying from his lips as he spoke.

Bolan said nothing as he watched the dying man.

Sharif started to say something else, but convulsed several times, and then ceased moving, his eyes no longer focused on anything.

“He dead?” Washington asked.

“Yeah, he is.” Shifting his weapon, the Executioner squatted and tossed the AK-47 aside, then began to go through the dead man’s pockets. He found nothing except matches, cigarettes and a wrinkled paper containing more khat. He keyed his mic to call Grimaldi, but got no response.

“No reception in here,” he said to Washington. “We’re too deep. Go back to the others and get Doerr down here. We’re shoving off as soon as we set the charges.”

“What about our target?” Washington indicted the fallen Sharif.

“I’ll get an ID sample,” Bolan said, and took out his KA-BAR.

Washington shouldered the recovered AK-47, then grabbed Sharif’s rifle. “No sense leaving these behind.”

“Put them with the artillery shells,” Bolan said. “They can all go up together.”

Washington looked askance. “I was thinking war souvenirs.”

He shrugged. “As long as you carry them.”

Washington grinned and slung the second rifle.

Bolan straightened the index finger of Sharif’s right hand, flattened it against the stone floor, then adjusted the blade of the KA-BAR.

Bringing Sharif’s body back with them was out of the question. Some blood and a bit of flesh would have to do. He pressed the blade downward.

Standing, he placed the samples in a special packet and placed it in his pants pocket. Another glance at his watch indicated that the numbers were counting down rapidly. He jogged back down the corridor, flipping up the night-vision goggles as he got closer to the light. Miller was finishing up. He looked at Bolan.

“We found a bunch of C-4 and some detonator caps,” he said. “Got everything just about set.”

Bolan nodded and went to check on Johnson. Doerr was standing alongside Washington as Vargas applied pressure to Johnson’s leg.

“He needs a medivac,” Vargas said.

Bolan keyed his mic and called Grimaldi again.

“Back at ya, Striker.”

“You still have that pickup in sight?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Bolan paused to smile at his partner’s levity, despite the situation. But that was Grimaldi. Always ready with a wisecrack.

“Light it up, then come back for us. We’ve got a casualty so we’ll designate with red smoke. Stay clear of this structure. We’re igniting some sarin.”

“Roger that.”

A distant burst of fire flickered in the distance. A rumble of sound drifted by them several seconds later.

Bolan indicated that Doerr and Vargas were to carry Johnson. He checked the wind direction and pointed. “Let’s make sure we stay upwind of the detonation.”

Miller grunted and said he’d stay until they were far enough away before setting off the blast.

“We won’t leave without you,” Bolan said, and followed the others down the slope toward the flat expanse of the road, the LZ.

The stuttering sound of the helicopter moving toward them became audible.

Bolan keyed his mic. “Blow it.”

Fifty yards away a yellowish tongue of flames thrust out from the front of the old stone structure, then disappeared into a punctuating rumble of collapsing rocks and mortar. Bolan uncapped the flare and slammed the igniter against his thigh, sending a trail of red smoke upward.

“Got you, Striker,” Grimaldi said over the radio.

The chopping sound of the helicopter grew closer, and Bolan saw Miller running toward them.

After checking on Johnson, who made a weak thumbs-up gesture, Bolan watched as Grimaldi expertly guided the Black Hawk onto the gravel expanse about forty feet away.

“Let’s go home,” he said, motioning his team toward the chopper.

Chapter Two

Arlington, Virginia

Warren Novak used his index finger to tip over the black king on the far side of the chessboard. He preferred the tactile pleasure of handling the carved, wooden pieces when playing, even if it was only a solitary game taken from one of his many chess problem books. He sighed at the ease with which he’d won, and poured himself another dash of the fine Kentucky bourbon. Novak made a silent vow that if the phone didn’t ring before he finished it, he would give up for the night and go to bed after the conclusion of the evening news. The idiots on television with their pathetic lead-ins had barely touched on the ongoing congressional committee hearings. But then again, those things had become as commonplace as traffic accidents of late.

Train wrecks would be more appropriate, he thought. No one realized that the fate of the whole damn country was affected by the self-serving antics of the political posers. It was all about getting their faces in front of the cameras. To hell with what was actually good for the country.

He smiled as he sipped his drink, and felt the burn going all the way down.

Few things were better than vintage bourbon. If only all his troubles could be washed away with a good drink, but it was never that easy when the politicians, with their hypocritical displays of moral outrage, were clamoring for somebody else to be held accountable.

The several million dollars in purported research grants, the inflated costs of research and development, the violations of the specifics in the defense contract, the special perks that were being funneled back to the Baron & Allan Corporation—and good old Congressman Eddie Meeks would be held accountable if the congressman from Illinois, the self-proclaimed “conscience of Congress,” got his way.

Life was like a game of chess. One had to maintain both perspective and control to win. Still, there were other factors to be considered. Meeks, being African American and of the same party as William “Call me Bill” Oglethorpe, would inject a certain amount of reticence in the committee’s investigation. But that wouldn’t last forever, and they’d be standing in line to throw Meeks under the bus when the time came.

Novak brought the glass to his lips and took a longer sip, swishing it around in his mouth a bit before swallowing and once again delighting in the slow burn as it traveled downward. As CEO of the corporation, Novak knew his own fate was tied to all of this. If Baron & Allan went down, so would he. So would Franklin Rhome, so would Meeks. They were all living in a house of cards.

But again, control was the key, being able to see two or three moves ahead and plan for your opponent’s next move.

He rubbed his other hand over his shaved head, felt the stubble and a layer of dampness, and then wiped his palm on his pajama top.

If B&A went, they were held under the microscope, he’d be hard pressed to explain the payoffs he’d made, the exclusive town house usage, the limousines, the endless parade of escorts to the lobbyists and the members of the appropriations committee... But that was the unspoken price of doing business in this town. All were necessary ingredients to grease the wheels. The way things worked in government. That it hadn’t worked with Congressman Oglethorpe had been a shocker, although Novak now knew he should’ve seen it coming. The man was different. There was something about him. Something telling. A handsome guy like that turning down the dates with the array of beauties Novak had managed to parade in front of him. And the son of a bitch looked like the embodiment of a male model.

The burner phone still reposed on the coffee table, basking in anxious silence.

If only that son of a bitch Oliver Burke would call, Novak thought. What the hell was taking him so long?

If Burke had good news, that the dirt they’d uncovered about the congressman’s dalliance with his aide—his young male aide—had worked, this whole thing might still be manageable.

But unlike chess, life had too many uncontrollable variables. There were no hard and fast rules to the game. Novak’s next moves were dependent on other people carrying them out.

So why didn’t Burke call?

As if in answer, the phone rang, almost making Novak spill the remainder of his drink. Burke’s voice on the other end was low and raspy.

“It’s a no go.”

“What?” Novak had to refrain from hurling the glass against the wall. “Did you show him the photos? The videos?”

“I did, and he laughed. Says he couldn’t care less. Even went so far as to say it’ll be to his advantage to be out of the closet this close to the midterms. It’ll give him more publicity and make him more reelectable. Sets him up to be our first openly gay presidential candidate down the road.”

“That son of a bitch.” Novak couldn’t help himself now and hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered with a sharp crash.

“What the hell was that?”

“Never mind. Shit. Did you get a feel about how much he knows?”

“Hard to say,” Burke said. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

The thought of the subpoena to appear before the committee flashed in Novak’s mind. What was Oglethorpe going to ask? The cost overruns for the B&A defense contracts had been substantial, and they had pitifully little to show for it. Two sets of prototypes. And if Oglethorpe had found out about Meeks’s personal investment ties to the company, it would be indictment time for the lot of them.

The thought of sitting before the committee on the hot seat not knowing exactly what Oglethorpe had up his sleeve, or when he was going to choose to reveal it, made Novak crave another drink. But he was going to need to get as much sleep as he could. The tension gripped his neck and spine as the anxiety and exhaustion washed over him.

Control... He’d deal with it tomorrow. Plus he did have other options.

“Any word from Ted?” Novak asked.

“Yeah, everything’s in place, and he’s waiting for a chance to throw that Hail Mary pass. How much good it’s going to do is open to question.”

“I don’t pay you to question,” Novak said. The Hail Mary pass, as Burke and Ted McMahon called it, was merely to advertise the special capabilities of the Aries drone. The payoff would come when and if they had to go off the grid and into private practice.

“Ted also said there’s a bit of a glitch.”

Novak felt a twinge in this stomach. “What kind of glitch?”

“Somewhere in the food chain they got wind of Sharif and Farouk being involved.”

Ali Sharif... Muhammad Farouk... Two flies in the ointment. Twin pawns steadily moving toward the back row, thinking they were going to be crowned as kings, and not realizing they were merely part of a gambit. But the die was cast. The play had to be made.

“Tell him to continue as planned,” Novak said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bright and early.” Burke laughed and disconnected.

Novak felt like throwing the burner phone against the wall, too. Sure, Burke could laugh. It wasn’t his ass on the line, testifying before a congressional oversight committee, led by some overzealous congressman who wanted to make a name for himself in front of the TV cameras so he could set himself up for reelection and an eventual run for the White House.

The first openly gay presidential candidate, my ass, Novak thought.

If only that little potential blackmail scheme would have worked. The drone had captured excellent photos and video of Oglethorpe and his boy toy aide on that private beach. But in this current topsy-turvy world of ultra political correctness, the old rules didn’t apply any longer. Nothing applied anymore. The inmates were running the asylum.

What happened to the good old days, Novak wondered, when you could get some honest dirt on some politician and use it to your advantage?

He shook his head and fingered the bottle of bourbon.

Okay, Novak thought, if that’s the way the bastard wanted to play it... Sterner measures were called for. After the disposal operations in the Middle East were completed, depending on the amount of good press the Aries got, he could figure out a way to take care of Oglethorpe.

He looked at the bottle, then to the shattered glass. He could get up and get another one, but decided against it.

Novak sighed, braced himself, lifted the bottle to his mouth and tilted it, feeling the burst of astringent fluid saturate his tongue.

Onward and upward, he thought. Knights away.

USS Soley

Somewhere in the Arabian Sea

Bolan entered the small briefing room aboard the ship and saw that Grimaldi and the others were sitting around the table with plastic bottles of water. The captain and his executive officer—XO—stood near the door looking solemn. Kevin McCarthy, the Defense Department liaison officer, was on the other side of the room, by a flip chart with a map of Yemen attached. The frown on his face was evident as he looked at his watch in an exaggerated manner.

“Nice of you to join us.”

Bolan ignored him and grabbed a bottle of water from the iced bucket. He was totally familiar with armchair operatives like McCarthy and had little respect for them. They were career bureaucrats who sat on their asses in carefree safety and comfort while they sent others, who put their lives on the line, into hot zones. Bolan twisted the cap and took a long drink.

McCarthy loudly cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to conduct our debrief.”

Bolan lowered the bottle, looked at the man and addressed the others. “Johnson’s going to be all right.”

Grimaldi held up his open palm and high-fived the other members of the team.

“Glad to hear that, Striker,” he said.

“Well, I’d be glad to hear a bit about the mission,” McCarthy said.

“The presence of the sarin was verified,” Bolan told him. “As was the presence of Ali Sharif. Both were tactically neutralized.”

No one spoke for several seconds as the team members exchanged glances. Bolan reached into his pocket, removed a sealed plastic packet and tossed it onto the table.

“This should provide confirmation.”

McCarthy’s lips drew into a tight line. “I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear from the onset. The plan was for apprehension and transport back to Guantanamo and then to call in a drone strike to dispose of the gas.”

“That wasn’t possible.”

McCarthy pursed his lips. “And why, pray tell, was that?”

Grimaldi snorted. “Pray what? It’s been a long time since I heard that expression.”

McCarthy glared down at him. “Your orders were to observe, report and reapprehend.”

“Reapprehend,” Grimaldi repeated. “Is that a government word? I’m sure I’ve never seen it in the dictionary.”

Bolan remained silent, but the other team members chuckled.

“I’ve had enough of your smart-ass remarks,” McCarthy said. “I want you to know that I consider this mission an abject failure.”

“Yeah?” Grimaldi snorted. “Well, considering we took out a bunch of terrorists, destroyed a shit load of sarin gas and eliminated the asshole you guys mistakenly let out in the first place, I think we did pretty damn good apart from one of our team getting hit.”

“Do you realize the intelligence value of a target like Sharif?” McCarthy shot back. “The information he could have provided?”

Grimaldi stared at him. “Do you realize that there’s a young American lying in the other room with a couple of holes in him that he got from you sending him on a mission that technically never happened because your screw-up caused it in the first place?”

“And your grandstanding in taking out the gas yourselves put the entire mission in jeopardy. That’s what the drones are for. Did you ever hear of following orders?”

“Did you ever hear of a beat-down?” Grimaldi stood and lifted his right hand, his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Because you’re about this close to getting one.”

Before McCarthy could respond, Bolan stepped forward. “This debrief is officially over.”

“What?” McCarthy whirled toward him. “You don’t have the authority to do that.”

“We don’t work for you,” Bolan said, pausing to take another drink from the water bottle. His voice was even, his face betraying no emotion. He turned to the captain and said, “Sir, we would appreciate it if you could make arrangements to get my partner and me to our scheduled rendezvous with the carrier. And these men need to get back to their regular assignments.”

The captain, a thin man with a weary look to him, smiled. “Already in motion. But I do have to tell you that there’s a crypto Skype call waiting for you in our communications center. We can set it up in here, if you want.”

“In here?” Grimaldi cocked his thumb in McCarthy’s direction. “With little Lord Fauntleroy in earshot? Like the man said, we don’t work for him.”

The liaison strode toward the door, yanked it open and stormed out.

“Think I should’ve told him not to let it hit him in the ass?” Grimaldi asked.

“I think you’ve said more than enough,” Bolan told him. “Captain, if you have a secure and private place for that call, we’d appreciate it.”

“You can use my office,” the XO said.

Bolan thanked the two officers, who then left. He turned to the team and held out his hand in front of the closest one.

“Nice working with you guys,” he said, shaking Washington’s hand first. “You all did well, even if what we did never officially happened.”

“We’ll go with you anytime, anyplace, Striker,” Vargas said, shaking his hand next.

A few minutes later Bolan and Grimaldi were making their way to the XO’s office.

“This has got to be Hal,” Grimaldi said.

“Most likely.”

“I wonder what he wants. Maybe he wants to put us in for a couple of medals or something.”

“Very funny.” Bolan stopped in front of the XO’s office door and knocked.

Upon entry they saw a large screen set against one wall. The XO handed the remote to Bolan, then stepped out of the room. The Executioner pressed the button and the screen came to life with an image of Hal Brognola sitting at the desk in the office he used whenever he was at Stony Man Farm. An unlit cigar dangled from his mouth as he looked up.

“How’d it go?”

“Mission complete, target tactically neutralized, WMD destroyed,” Bolan said.

The big Fed grunted his approval. “How’d that makeshift team we threw together perform?”

“They did well,” Bolan said. “One sustained injuries, but it appears he’ll be all right.”

Brognola’s face contorted into a frown. “Sorry to hear that. But...”

He let the sentence trail off. Bolan could tell Brognola was holding something back. He waited a few beats, then asked, “Hal, what’s up?”

Brognola removed the cigar from his mouth and stared at it. “You know, I’ve been trying to cut down on these things, but I’m seriously thinking about lighting this one up.”

“In celebration, I hope,” Grimaldi said, stepping up to insinuate himself into the camera lens. “That we accomplished the mission and are all still on the right side of the grass.”

“I wish.” Brognola’s frown deepened. “Ready for some bad news?”

Here it comes, Bolan thought. The reason for the call.

“Another mission?” he asked.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Grimaldi said.

Brognola’s smile looked weak. “Look, I know you guys are just coming off one, but the President’s asking for a special favor.”

“Aren’t they all special favors?” Grimaldi asked. “At least when we’re involved.”

Bolan silenced him with a look and turned back to the screen. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay. A couple hours ago a UN aid station was hit in northeastern Syria, near Bagouz. Three doctors and four nurses were taken. Three French nationals, four Americans.” He paused and stuck the cigar back between his teeth. “To make matters worse, there was an American news team there about to do an interview. They got grabbed, too.”

“How many total?” Bolan asked.

“Seven medical, three journalists. They’re threatening to start beheading the hostages on camera again. Time is of the essence. As always, you guys don’t have to go, but you’re the best, as well as the closest. Plus, you’ve got a team already with you.”

“A partial team,” Bolan said. “They’re pretty worn out from just getting off a mission. And we’re a man down.”

Brognola’s face took on a pained expression. “Yeah, I know, but the nearest SEAL team’s tied up on a mission of their own in Afghanistan.”

“Does the Agency have anybody in place?” Bolan asked.

“They’ve got an intel team on the ground there, but they’re strictly monitoring things with some drones.”

“A fat lot of good those damn things will do,” Grimaldi said.

“Let me see if I can get you some more support,” Brognola said. Then his face twisted with an inquisitive expression. “That is, if you’re in.”

Bolan shot a quick glance at Grimaldi, then said, “I can’t speak for the others, but Jack and I are.”

Grimaldi snorted. “I’m glad you told me.”

The big Fed exhaled loudly. “Good. Transport’s already on the way to your location.”

“You were pretty sure of yourself,” Bolan said, allowing himself a rare smile.

Brognola replied with a nod and a wink before the screen went blank.

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