Interventionism Under Fire
With Europe in economic turmoil, a small fascist group led by a powerful German industrialist plans to bring the continent under one leader. But first they must weaken the U.S. so it can’t interfere. The idea is simple…. Except conspiracists don’t count on Mack Bolan.
In Bolan’s search for a missing federal agent, he finds himself in a bloody firefight at the heavily guarded estate of an international arms dealer. As the bodies pile up around him, though, intel begins to paint a picture much bigger than one missing American. It’s a picture with devastating global repercussions—and the U.S. is about to take the first, calculated hit. Bolan must chase a burning fuse across Europe and America to prevent this promised fascist takeover.
A million things could go wrong, but they had to go in anyway.
The helicopter touched down and Bolan was the first one out. He dropped into a crouch and watched for any threats while the others disembarked.
The carnage was striking. The soldier counted two helicopters, their twisted and charred remains at ten o’clock and three o’clock. Fire ate the frames and pumped thick black columns of smoke into the sky. A quick sweep of the terrain revealed five dead uniformed guards. A couple of the corpses bobbed facedown in the swimming pool, the water around them clouded with blood. The bodies of two other men, both in black, were sprawled on the ground. Bolan assumed they were part of Geiger’s crew.
He also saw the bodies of at least a half dozen men and women in khaki pants and dark green polo shirts. They seemed to be equipped with holsters, additional magazines and handcuffs. Campaign hats lay on the ground near a couple of the shot-up guards. It hadn’t been a fight; it had been a slaughter.
Justice Run
Don Pendleton
Justice is justly represented blind, because she sees no difference in the parties concerned. She has but one scale and weight, for rich and poor, great and small.
—William Penn
Some Fruits of Solitude
Justice may be blind, but I am her eyes, forever seeking out those who would escape punishment.
—Mack Bolan
Contents
PROLOGUE
Monaco
Three months earlier
He had to get out of there.
The elevator doors parted and Fred Gruber burst from the confined space. He found himself surrounded by the sounds of meat sizzling, knives striking cutting boards and people shouting at one another in French. He looked around and saw men and women dressed in white chef hats and stained aprons standing at cooking stations, cutting vegetables or cooking meat on large griddles. On any other day, the amateur chef would’ve considered this a gift from heaven, a chance to watch skilled cooks make five-star French cuisine.
This