The second armed Jeep swept into view
The man behind the machine gun hadn’t known what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t to have a friendly gun turned on him. Bolan raked the Jeep from front to back, bullets punching into the hood and windshield. The driver jerked back, his chest and head pulverized by the continuous blast of automatic fire.
The Jeep swerved and ran on for yards before the engine stalled and it rattled to a stop. The Executioner hammered at it until the gas tank’s contents caught a spark and erupted in a boiling surge of flame.
The surviving traffickers had begun to pull themselves together for a concerted rush at Bolan’s vehicle, but the Executioner swung the barrel of his weapon back on line and inflicted more damage. Under his relentless fire, the men went down hard, bodies bloodied and torn.
Bolan’s finger released the trigger and the chatter of the machine gun ceased. All that remained was the moaning of the wounded. The dead held their peace.
The Executioner knew the clock was ticking. Though the numbers were still falling, he knew without a shadow of doubt there would be others.
How long he might hold them back was anyone’s guess.
Cartel Clash
The Executioner®
Don Pendleton
May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I sure as hell won’t.
—George S. Patton
1885–1945
No matter how long and bloody the conflict, the drug war has to be faced head-on. Those engaged in the trafficking of narcotics have no scruples. No conscience. Their victims do not concern these people. All they see are the dollars their foul product earns. If we are to engage, our resolve has to be unshakable and our tactics as ruthless as theirs.
—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 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
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Prologue
Border Country, Texas
“It never ceases to amaze me,” Preacher said, “how ingenious folk can be when it comes to making things that do harm.”
He was fingering a strand of the razor wire that stretched across the tract of land where Texas met Mexico. It ran in an unbroken line east to west, a man-made barrier cutting across the invisible border.
Choirboy, his partner, nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze to the barely moving figure spread-eagled across the wire. The man’s earlier struggles had slowed imperceptibly until he was almost motionless. His initial twisting and turning had caused countless cuts and gashes in his naked flesh, and he was torn and bloody.
“No question it ain’t doin’ him any favors,” he said.
Preacher shaded his eyes as he glanced skyward. The sun was directly overhead. Hot and bright. The man on the wire was unprotected and unable to save himself from what was to come. Preacher didn’t figure on more than a couple of hours.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Something cool in a long glass is my choice.”
They turned and walked to the 4x4 parked close by. Choirboy drove, turning the vehicle in the direction of the dirt road roughly two miles away. From there a twenty-minute ride would bring them to the main highway.
Preacher took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He listened as the number rang out. When it was answered, he recognized the voice immediately.
“She’s done,” Preacher said.
“Fine. The rest of your fee will be transferred by morning.”
“Hell, I wasn’t calling about that. Just to let you know the problem has been resolved.”
“Okay.”
The call over, Preacher put away his phone and turned on the radio. The station was local, playing some country and western.
“Now that is nice,” Choirboy said.
“It is so, too,” Preacher said. “Push that pedal down, son, I’m getting real thirsty.”
THE MAN LEFT BEHIND on the razor wire took another hour to die. The savage beating he had received before being thrown on the barrier had weakened him already.