BLOOD TOLL
American smugglers intent on running terrorists across the Mexican border don’t realize that the extra man they’ve picked up en route is working undercover to stop them. Or that the man is Mack Bolan and he’s dedicated to preventing their treacherous human cargo from ever reaching the U.S.
Partnered with a border patrol agent, Bolan needs to come up with a Plan B fast when their covers are blown...or risk the country coming under a devastating terror attack. The Executioner is setting up his own form of border patrol and no one is crossing without his permission.
The smell of blood had gotten the jaguar’s attention
The Executioner turned slowly as the cat circled him, never quite letting itself be seen by its intended prey. Bolan’s grip on the tire iron tightened as he swung it, trying to loosen his protesting muscles.
“Walk away, pal,” Bolan said. “Go look for dinner elsewhere.”
The only reply he got was the sound of the animal moving through the brush. He caught the flash of a tail out of the corner of his eye. Green eyes met his and Bolan froze. He was very aware of his blood dripping onto the thirsty soil, and of the pounding of his heart.
Bolan let the tire iron slide through his fingers until he was gripping the end. He’d get one swing, just one. “So it had better be good, right?”
The jaguar snarled.
“Come on then. You want me? I’m not going anywhere.”
The jaguar paused, then its muscles bunched and its tail went rigid. Bolan tensed. The cat sprang.
And the Executioner—his body honed into a weapon second-to-none—lunged to meet it.
Border Offensive
Don Pendleton
This is not a battle between the United States of America and terrorism, but between the free and democratic world and terrorism.
—Tony Blair,
British Prime Minister
There are no borders for terrorism—no lines it won’t cross. But wherever innocent lives are threatened, I will go there and wage my war. Whether it’s here at home or on soils abroad, I will fight strong.
—Mack Bolan
The Mack Bolan Legend
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand 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.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Joshua Reynolds for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Chapter 1
The Mexican border
The truck was military surplus, but any insignia hinting at its origins had long since faded beneath the glare of the Mexican sun. Inside the truck, beneath a reinforced tarp, rested a minor, if profitable, amount of death in posse—black tar heroin. On top of the truck, a substantially larger amount of death in esse clung to the tarp, pressing his long frame as flat as it could go. Mack Bolan blinked, trying to eject the grit from his eyes, and shifted his weight for the hundredth time in as many minutes.
It had been the task of moments getting on the truck, but the ride had been a test to his patience. The heat, the dust and the uncomfortable realities of his position were wearing down his normally stoic outlook about such things. His skin itched with dirt beneath his fatigues, and the body armor felt more and more constrictive as time wore on. He had taken numerous wounds in his long