Bolan’s thoughts turned to CLODO’s leader
He was the brains behind a number of attacks on computer manufacturers and related businesses during the past several months, and much more than computers had been destroyed.
Bombs, stray bullets and other collateral damage were always the result of warfare. But with terrorists, it became the objective rather than an unfortunate by-product. Since its reorganization, CLODO’s bombings, machine-gunning and other terrorist strikes had claimed hundreds of lives.
The Executioner’s jaw tightened as the bloody sight before him generated anger. He wasn’t responsible for the death and destruction at this CLODO safehouse.
Pierre Rouillan was responsible for the deaths of his men.
Killing Game
Mack Bolan®
Don Pendleton
At least two-thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity…
—Aldous Huxley,
1894–1963
The stupidity, motivation and flawed thinking of certain individuals never cease to amaze me. We must stand on guard and protect the innocent from their deranged plans of carnage. Whatever it takes.
—Mack Bolan
CONTENTS
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 ONE
Paris, France
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, glanced up at the sliver of moon in the otherwise darkened sky. Then, dropping his line of vision, he took another quick survey of the one-story suburban house in front of him and his black-clad companion. This house looked little different than the other homes lining both sides of the street in this upper middle-class Parisian residential neighborhood, but it was different.
This dwelling housed terrorists.
The Executioner pointed Russian Intelligence agent Marynka Platinov toward the side of the house, then tapped his wristwatch with the same hand. “Thirty seconds,” he whispered.
The beautiful blond-haired Russian agent glanced at her own watch, nodded, then took off in a jog around the corner.
Bolan couldn’t help but let his eyes fall to her hips as the well-developed muscles in her buttocks tightened. Platinov—often shortened simply to “Plat” when Bolan spoke to her—wore the same stretchy black battle coveralls, known as “blacksuits,” as him.
She and the Executioner had worked together several times in the past—first when she’d been a new KGB officer and later, when she’d emerged from the ashes of the Soviet Union to rise in the ranks of the newly formed Russian Intelligence Bureau—and Bolan was one of only a handful of people who knew her whole story. He and the beautiful Russian woman had developed a solid working relationship.
The Executioner glanced at the weapons and other equipment that hung from Platinov’s blacksuit. A double shoulder rig with a matching pair of Colt Gold Cup .45s was stretched across her back, and a 1911 Government Model .45 rode on a curvaceous hip.
The Executioner glanced at his watch as his partner turned the corner. Twenty seconds remained. He pulled back the bolt of the Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun hanging from his shoulder on a sling, chambered the first round and flipped the selector switch from the safety position to 3-round-burst mode. As he methodically readied the weapon, his thoughts turned on Platinov and the only real area of disagreement that always stood between them.
The Russian woman was as loyal to her country as Bolan was to the U.S. And on rare occasions—even when their end objective was the same—those two loyalties conflicted. When that happened, problems arose. The Executioner didn’t foresee any such problems on the horizon for this op, however. The leader of CLODO—Computer Liquidation and Hijack Committee—and the rest of his newly vivified terrorist organization that they sought, were an equal threat to both countries. Yet, Bolan reminded himself, he would have to keep one eye on the enemy and the other on Platinov.
Bolan started up the concrete steps to the front porch of the CLODO safe house, taking them two at a time. At precisely the thirty-second mark, he slammed his right boot into the door just to one side of the dead-bolt lock. Wood cracked then splintered as the framework around the door exploded like a hand grenade filled with wooden shrapnel. A fraction of a second later, he heard a similar noise at the rear of the house and knew Platinov had entered the back entrance.
The front door swung open, crashing into the wall and rebounding back toward the Executioner as he raised the submachine gun to waist level. He pushed the door back again with his left hand. As the noise died down, the house went eerily silent for a second.
During that lull, the Executioner had time to quickly assess the interior of the house. He found himself standing on a ragged carpet in the living room. A soccer game was playing on a large-screen HDTV in the far corner, and set into the wall next to it was a fireplace.
Men, close to a dozen and many dressed similarly, sat around the living room on couches and in reclining chairs, watching the game, rifles, shotguns, submachine guns and pistols scattered throughout the area.
Platinov stood between the fireplace and a kitchen table in the far corner opposite the HDTV, her own MP-5 hanging from the sling over the shoulder of her blacksuit. Just to her side, Bolan could see a small breakfast table and chairs. The rest of the kitchen, he knew, had to be hidden behind the wall to his left.
The Executioner noted a dining-room table also to his left, with more men clustered around it, playing cards. Poker chips were stacked in front of each man. The terrorists cursed and dived for their weapons.
The Executioner triggered a 3-round burst of hollowpoint rounds at the CLODO gunner directly in front of him. The man wore a blue beret, a tan short-sleeved shirt and brown trousers.
Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm, had briefed Bolan and Platinov via satellite phone during their flight from Washington, D.C., to France. Along with the location of this only known CLODO safe house, the Executioner and Platinov had learned that the beret, shirt and pants were a sort of “unofficial” CLODO uniform. There was nothing particularly militant-looking about the garb and, indeed, many men on the streets of Paris who had nothing to do with this anticomputer terrorist organization wore basically the same clothing. But these specific items of clothing—always in the same colors and combination—were the first step in helping the terrorists identify one another. The next step was a series of coded, and frequently changed, nonsensical questions and answers to make sure that they had not just bumped into some non-CLODO-aligned Parisian on his way to a bocce game in the park.
Members of the CLODO organization had come to be known as CLODO men by all who opposed them. That included America, Russia and most other civilized