Verge of Extinction

An eco-terrorist group has set up base in a secluded part of Yellowstone National Park with a plan to save the planet. Believing mankind is a virus that must be eradicated, the group has set in motion a plot to kill millions in seconds and leave the rest of the human race on the verge of extinction. Nothing will throw them off course—including any campers who try to stop them. But Mack Bolan isn’t your average outdoorsman.

Unarmed, with only his wits and nature on his side as the clock ticks down to a nuclear disaster, Bolan knows the best chance for saving countless innocent lives and averting a global crisis is through guerilla warfare. The terrorists may be on a mission to destroy man, but the Executioner has his own elimination objectives.

Bullets punched holes in the fender near Bolan’s head.

He rolled to the passenger side of the pickup just as the sniper rifle’s report boomed again and another round tore through the cargo bed on the driver’s side. The flames from the engine would soon engulf the entire truck or reach the gas tank. Neither scenario made for a case to stay put.

Sticking his gun up over the edge of the bed, Bolan cranked off several 3-round bursts, then heaved himself over the side. Falling to the ground, he scooted under the truck, hoping to pick off at least one of the shooters before the sniper got lucky.

He scanned the forest, looking for movement, and caught a flash of fire from the tree line about twenty yards behind the truck.

Then a whoosh came from behind him and the engine burst with a spray of fluid. The flames dimmed for a moment, then flared up with renewed intensity. Bolan felt his feet and legs growing hotter each second. He shut all that out, and narrowed his world to the dot inside the circle at the end of the gun.

Amid the chaos, the Executioner inhaled through his nose, let the air escape through his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

Nuclear Storm

The Executioner

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.

—Henry David Thoreau

1817–1862

Human beings have certain rights, the greatest being that to live. And when anyone dares steal this right from innocent people, I will step in and take away that person’s rights—every last one.

—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.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.

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

Prologue

Sitting under the clear Wyoming night sky, the thousands of stars overhead giving him an amazing view of the heavens, Joseph Sidell felt the stress of his first graduate student semester finally begin to dissipate from his neck and shoulders.

On the other side of the campfire, his roommate, George Turlington, smiled as he tossed another log on the blaze, making a burst of sparks float into the night sky. “Feelin’ better, buddy?”

“Yeah, but I’m still worried about the havoc this trip is gonna wreak on my schedule.”

“Jeez, will you just relax for the next two days? MIT will still be there when you get back, and your crushing workload will be right there waiting for you, too. Right now, just sit back, ponder the heavenly light show above us, and—” he winked one deep brown eye “—think of other pleasures you could be enjoying.”

Joe frowned. “What are you talking about?”

George rolled his eyes. “Dude, you have got to stop drawing all those buildings people will be living in in 2050 and take an occasional look at the world around you—and the people in it. Brandy is way into you, man!”

Joe’s brow furrowed even more. “Shut up! I wouldn’t even have a chance with a woman like her.”

“Dude, just ’cause she’s got the big brain on campus doesn’t mean she doesn’t appreciate other things in life—” he pointed a finger at Joe “—unlike some other people I could mention. You know she’s into all that environmental save-the-planet stuff. Your little modular boxes you wanna plant on the Serengeti are just the opening you need to start a conversation with her that could lead to—other things.”

It was Joe’s turn to roll his eyes. Even as an accomplished grad student in quantum physics, George’s exploits on campus with the opposite sex—students and professors both—were already the stuff of legend. With his Denzel-like looks, athletic ability and stratospheric IQ, he combined looks, body and brains in a completely irresistible package. Joe figured all his buddy would have to do was say the word and Brandy would fall naked at his feet.

By contrast, Joe was a brown-haired, blue-eyed, fair-skinned German, indistinguishable from any of the thousand other grad students on campus. That Brandy would even give him a second glance when Mr. Adonis was right beside him was an idea Joe found ludicrous at best.

George rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “Look, I’ll prove it to you. When the others come back, I’ll bet she’ll come up with some excuse to go off for something—firewood, perhaps—and will ask for help. There’s your chance, stud.”

Joe smiled at his friend’s pipe dream. “I think you’ve been smoking too much salvia, buddy. But all right, just to shut you up, let’s see what happens when they return.” He looked around the neatly set up campsite, with the tents arranged around the campfire, and folding stadium chairs next to fully stocked coolers. Opening the nearest one, he grabbed a beer from it and raised an eyebrow at his roommate. “While we’re waiting…”

“Now you’re talking.” George deftly caught the cold can Joe tossed to him.

Bright headlights illuminated the clearing as an ancient but well cared-for Jeep Cherokee slowly climbed the narrow road—little more than a trail—leading to the campsite. The diesel engine died, and four students spilled out of the four-by-four.

Joe watched the quartet unload the rest of their supplies and haul them closer to the fire. Sanjay Patel was a mechanical engineering student working on the next generation of rechargeable batteries—and engines. Sandra Talbot was the archetypical mousy, brown-haired, glasses-wearing, library-haunting geek—who also happened to be studying the cutting edge of particle physics and had a 193 IQ. She was also George’s current girlfriend, which Joe was still trying to figure out. When he’d asked his roomie about her, all the other guy had said was, “What can I say? I likes ’em with big brains.”

Samuel Moskowitz, a finance grad taking a double major in forensic accounting and computer science, was planning to fight Wall Street crime after graduation. Rounding out the sextet was the improbably named Brandy Bodeen.

Even as buried as he was in worrying about the crushing workload awaiting him back at campus, Joe’s heart skipped a beat and his jeans tightened when he saw the lithe blonde tote another cooler to the site. Curved in all the right places, and slender everywhere else, she even made her shapeless hoodie and blue jeans look like a model was wearing them.

There were loud greetings, backslaps, and several beer cans cracked open as everyone got down to the serious business of relaxing—namely, drinking until they could barely see. Joe had rejoined the group near the fire and caught George’s steady gaze. He shook his head and shrugged, and that was when he heard the words.

“Fire’s getting low.” Brandy rose gracefully from her cross-legged position on a blanket. “I’m gonna get more wood. Who wants to come with me?”

The others muttered excuses, and with a start Joe realized he was the only one who hadn’t spoken yet. “I—I’ll go.” He scrambled to his feet, trying to avoid tripping or stumbling. As he rose, he saw George wipe a smile off his face and realized what was going on.

Son of a bitch—he set the whole thing up, Joe thought. He tore his gaze away from his roommate only to find himself staring at Brandy, who was looking at him with her round, blue eyes, a faint crease between her eyebrows indicating her puzzlement.

“You ready?” Her lush, full-lipped grin was impish, and at that moment Joe couldn’t have cared less if this whole thing had been set up, or it she had been a prostitute instead of one of the smartest minds at MIT. If she wanted to get with him, who was he to refuse?

He smiled back. “Absolutely.”

“Hey sport, catch.” Joe turned just in time to put his hands up and grab the flashlight Sanjay had tossed to him.

“Don’t get lost out there. Stay within sight of the fire,” Sam said as he stirred the blaze with a stick.

“Yes, Mom,” Brandy replied, cracking up the rest of the group. “Come on, Joe.”

Walking beside her, Joe and Brandy left the warm circle of light and entered the forest proper. Joe felt the four pairs of eyes on his back as they left. Moving his finger back behind him, he flipped them all off, making the four howl with laughter again.

Brandy glanced behind them, and Joe quickly turned his bird into scratching an itch. “What was that about?”

“I’m sure George told a joke or something.” Joe looked around as they proceeded deeper into the woods. Birch, ash and oak trees towered over them, mixed with pine and fir, which lent the night a clean, woodsy scent. He was a city boy through and through, but tried not to show his nervousness about being here. His only other experiences with nature had been the science camps his parents had packed him off to every summer. Even then, he’d spent more time indoors doing experiments than the normal things like swimming and fishing that boys did at that age.

Alone with Brandy, Joe was even more tongue-tied than at the campsite. She didn’t seem to mind, strolling along like she didn’t have a care in the world. Finally, he came up with, “So, how’s your research coming?”

She turned to him and smiled, her teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “I could bore you to tears with a ten-minute dissertation on the movement of wave particles in the sixth dimension, but I don’t think that’s why we’re here.”

She kept staring at him, making Joe’s earlier bravado slip away. “Look, I know George arranged this, but I’ll understand if you just want to get the firewood and head back—”

Brandy turned to him, and Joe suddenly felt pressure on the back of his head, and before he could wonder why he was leaning forward, she brought his mouth to hers and kissed him hungrily. Joe put his arms around her slim waist and held her, partly to keep from falling over with surprise, and partly just to get his hands on her. The kiss itself was everything he’d ever fantasized about, and then some. When they parted, he sucked in a breath and just stared at her.

“Joe, who do you think gave him the idea?” She smiled again and pulled away from him. “Come on.”

They ran deeper into the woods, finding a narrow path that twisted and turned in the moonlight. When they were both sure they’d be safe from any curious eyes, Brandy stopped and turned to him. “You’re the reason I came on this trip, you know.”

“Me? Why?”

She smiled that dazzling smile again. “I wanted to get to know you better.”

Between the beer—Joe was a relative lightweight in the drinking category—his hormones and the light-headedness from her kiss, he could barely keep up. “Uh, yeah, you hardly know me now.”

“Well, what better place to change that?” She walked toward him, and Joe raised his hand as he was about to answer her—or say something—but his mouth stopped working as his fingers encountered her firm breast first. Joe froze, mortified, but Brandy unzipped her hoodie and moved his hand inside to cup her warm flesh through her T-shirt.

“That’s a good start. Here…” She turned off the flashlight and stuck it in his back pocket. “It’s always more fun in the dark.”

Joe could scarcely believe this was happening. His other arm curled around her, and he brought her close for a longer kiss. She was warm and willing, molding herself to him, her sweet-tasting mouth open and tongue and exploring. Her hand stole down to the front of his jeans, which were unmistakably bulging.

Even if George did set this up, it would still be worth it, Joe pondered, all other coherent thoughts fleeing as he lost himself in her touch and taste. He also lost track of time. It could have been minutes or hours, but the next thing he was aware of was being jerked back and squinting as an intense light was shone in his face. Joe tried to put an arm up to shield his vision, but it was grabbed and twisted behind his back and up between his shoulder blades.

“What the—ow! Hey, what’s going on?” he asked, blinking fast to try to adjust his vision.

Brandy was also protesting what was going on, and Joe heard, “Get your hands off me, fuckwad—” followed by what sounded like a slap, and her voice fell silent.

“Hey, look, just tell us what the problem is here.” Joe’s tearing eyes were finally adjusting to the glare, and he could see five figures beyond the spotlight. Next to him, Brandy had a hand to her bruised and cut lip. He bent over to look at her, but her answering glance wasn’t scared or surprised—she looked furious.

“The only problem is that you two are in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The light was suddenly taken away, and Joe got his first look at the intruders.

The group was unlike anyone he had ever seen. Four men and one woman were all dressed in green, brown and black camouflage fatigues, complete with nylon straps and harnesses crisscrossing their chests and around their waists. Camo face paint covered their cheeks and forehead, giving them an unnerving appearance with their white eyes staring out of a swath of black or green. Each had what looked like night vision goggles pushed up on their heads. They were all armed, too, with the biggest guns Joe had ever seen. With a start, he realized they were Heckler & Koch submachine guns like counterterrorist teams used. Before a few seconds ago, he’d only seen them in the movies.

“Uh, okay, guys, what is this—did we stumble on some kind of Army training exercise or something?”

His question didn’t bring the desired response. Instead of an answer, the men and woman all looked around and laughed quietly. One of them turned his head and spit on the ground.

“We’re about the farthest thing from Army pigs you’ll ever see.”

Brandy moved closer to Joe, her hand stealing into his. He felt it tremble, and he gave what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “Okay, look, obviously we went a little too far down the path, so we’ll just head back to our campsite and let you go on your way—”

“Campsite? What campsite? Where?” one of them asked.

“That’s not important—look, we should just be going—” Joe pulled Brandy with him as he tried to turn and go back the way they had come.

The group reacted instantly. Two of them moved to cut the pair off from the path, while the woman grabbed Brandy’s hand and twisted it free of Joe’s.

“Ow—let go, bitch!” Brandy’s arm came up in a roundhouse swing that cuffed her attacker on the side of the head. The blow didn’t even stagger her, and the woman glared at Brandy with venom in her eyes.

“That’s it.” In one fluid movement, she drew the pistol on her hip and aimed it at Brandy’s head. “This whore dies now—”

“Stand down, Zeta!” the group leader ordered. “No unsilenced shots, remember?”

The woman’s lip curled in a snarl, then she raised the pistol and brought it down in a savage blow to Brandy’s cheek. The butt of the gun split her skin, making the young woman fall with a scream.

“Hey, what the fuck!” Joe crouched next to Brandy and put his arm around her. He felt the flashlight in his back pocket press into his butt, and thought about using it as a weapon, but dismissed the idea—they’d cut him down before he even got close. “Hey, you all right?”

She looked up at him with unfocused eyes filled with fear. Her once-high, proud cheekbone was gashed to what looked like the bone, bleeding profusely as it started to swell. “Joe,” she whispered, “they—they’re gonna kill us!”

“You may be right,” he whispered. “Just follow my lead, and be ready to run.” Joe brought her up with him as he stood again. “Look, we don’t know who you are or why you’re here, and we don’t care. Just—just let us go, and we won’t say a word to anyone, I swear. Hell, we’ll pack up right now and head home. You’ll never see us again.”

The group leader grinned without a hint of mirth, making Joe’s heart sink. “I wish I could believe that. Hell, if it were up to me, I’d probably let you skedaddle, since it isn’t gonna matter one way or the other in a few days anyway.” Again, Joe was surrounded by those quiet, ominous chuckles as the man slowly shook his head. “But it isn’t up to me. We have our orders, and we’re gonna carry them out.”

“No!” Brandy broke from Joe’s side and launched herself at the woman, hands outstretched to claw at her face.

“Brandy!” Joe could only watch helplessly as the woman intercepted her with a feral smile. She raised her left hand to sweep Brandy’s arms away from her face and brought her right hand around from behind her back, shoving it out at the other woman’s abdomen.

Brandy stopped as though she had run into a wall. Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out as she slowly looked down at herself.

“I hope that felt as good to you as it did to me.” The woman called Zeta did something Joe couldn’t see, but it made Brandy’s entire body convulse. She then lifted the frozen girl’s face up and kissed her open mouth. “Mmm—I never tasted the last breath of anyone before. Kinda sweet.”

“Damn, Zeta, that’s cold,” a tall, skinny man muttered.

“What. Delta said no shots fired. I’m just following orders.” The woman took her hand away and stepped back. Brandy turned to Joe, hands clutching her middle, and he saw her waist and legs were dark and wet.

“Oh my God—Brandy! Brandy! What the fuck—” Joe grabbed her as she staggered and fell, easing her to the ground and placing her on her back. As he did, he moved her hands aside and saw a gush of blood well from the wound in her stomach. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

“I stabbed an uppity bitch, that’s what I did.” Zeta knelt next to him and wiped her bloody blade on Brandy’s jeans. “She’ll bleed out in a day or two, and be in the most unimaginable agony the whole time. It’d be better if you let one of them put a bullet in her brain.”

“Joe…please don’t…please don’t leave me.” Brandy’s eyes were huge white pools of terror. She shook again, grabbing his jacket with bloody hands. “I’m cold—so cold.”

“Oh, fuck this.” Before Joe could do anything, Zeta reached out and drew her blade across the wounded girl’s throat. More blood gushed out, and she made horrible choking noises as she died in Joe’s arms.

The woman cleaned her blade off again and stood. “Trust me, you should really be thanking me—”

Joe saw red. A howl of fury burst from his throat, and he lunged into the woman, knocking her off balance and sending her tumbling into the men behind her. Whirling, he rushed at the two blocking the path, catching them both by surprise. As they scrambled to bring up their weapons, Joe drew the flashlight from his back pocket and swung it at the nearest man’s head, the plastic housing making a satisfying thunk as it connected with his skull. The man staggered under the blow, and Joe shoved him into his partner as he took off into the woods, hearing urgent orders behind him.

“No open shooting!”

“Stop him!”

“Sigma, Theta, go! Execute scorched earth!”

Joe ran like the Devil himself was behind him, stumbling along the path leading through the dark forest. The trail, which had seemed wide and clear earlier, was now a twisting, narrow ribbon of dirt under his feet. Branches clutched at his arms and clothing, and an exposed root caught his foot and made him hit the ground and bite his tongue. Tasting blood, he spit it out as he leaped to his feet and kept going, limping now on a twisted ankle. He tried to look around to see if the camouflaged crazies were chasing him or what, but all he saw was black forest, trees trunks rising everywhere like a huge fence, their branches looking like skeletal fingers reaching for him.

Joe knew they couldn’t have gone more than a half mile at the most, but his journey back seemed to be a marathon. Every time he thought he’d round one more turn and find the clearing and campsite, he only saw more dark trail. At last, however, he saw the welcoming glow of the fire. Trying to shout, but too winded to do anything more than wheeze, Joe staggered out of the woods toward the laughing and drinking group, which hadn’t noticed him yet.

George was the first to spot him lurching from the darkness. “Hey, the prodigal architect returns! Hey, buddy, you all right?”

Joe nearly fell as he tried to reach his roommate, going down to one knee as he fought for breath. He held out his hands, still sticky with Brandy’s blood. “Help—please—”

“What the fuck happened, Joe?” George held him up as the rest of the group clustered around, their questions flying.

“Did you guys have an accident?”

“Is Brandy injured?”

“Where is she?”

Joe labored to talk in between breaths. “She’s…she’s dead, and we’re next…killers…in the forest…coming after me—”

“What the hell are you talking about, Joe? And where the hell’s Brandy?”

Joe grabbed George’s down vest and pulled him close. “She’s dead, goddamnit! And we’re next if we don’t get outta here right fucking now!”

“Holy shit, you’re serious, aren’t you—” George had straightened and was looking around when Joe heard a strange noise, like cloth tearing. He looked up to see George staring at him with unfocused eyes, a small hole in his forehead leaking a trickle of red down his face. His roommate fell backward onto the fire, making Sandra scream as his body started burning.

“Oh shit—they’re here!” Joe sank to his knees as he realized what he’d done. “I led them right to you.”

Sanjay and Sam ran for the Jeep, while Sandra tried to pull George’s body from the fire. Joe looked back to see two camouflaged men appear from the woods and track the two running students. He heard that strange ripping cloth noise again, and both Sanjay and Sam fell to the ground near the Jeep, motionless. One of the men peeled off toward the two fallen students, while the other headed toward the fire.

Falling into shock, Joe could only watch as the man approached the fire and put a quick burst of bullets into Sandra’s chest. She flung up her arms and fell across George’s burning body in the fire, which was popping and crackling in the flames, the stench of burning flesh making his stomach clench. Through his numbness, Joe heard the tearing cloth sound again, and slowly looked over to see the far man putting bullets into the heads of his friends.

“Sorry, man.” Joe looked up into the muzzle of the automatic weapon pointed at him, the masked man holding it shaking his head. “Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The end of the submachine gun spit fire at his face, and Joe knew nothing more.

Chapter 1

Four days earlier

Mack Bolan strode through the luxurious casino floor of the Marina Bay Sands Singapore, oblivious to the bells and clatter of sophisticated slot machines and the chatter and exclamations of well-dressed men and women trying their luck at dozens of gaming tables. His feet sank into soft, plush carpet, while attractive staff served drinks to the high rollers, but he ignored all of the activity, his eyes alert for just one man.

Dressed in a tan sport coat, black short-sleeved shirt and navy slacks, Bolan blended easily into the crowd of natives and foreign tourists, despite his height and imposing presence. The clothes were brand-new—mainly because his luggage had been lost by one of the six airlines he had been on in the past four days, and was presently at least twenty-four hours and several thousand miles behind him. Bolan himself felt edgy from two weeks of nearly constant travel, all in pursuit of one man.

Kim Dae-jung was a renegade nuclear scientist who’d defected from North Korea after working ten years at the highest levels of that country’s nuclear program. The U.S. had mounted an audacious, top-secret mission to free him, only to suffer the embarrassment of having him give the slip to his handlers and walk out of his hotel in Sydney, Australia. Since then, he’d been traveling around the world, freely spending the ten million he’d stolen from the North Korean government, rarely staying more than one night in the same place, and being chased by an assortment of agents and operatives from several nations, including assassins from his homeland who were tasked with assuring Dae-jung took any military and national secrets to his grave.

Despite his flamboyant style—he favored Dom Perignon champagne and the most expensive luxury suites in every hotel he’d been at—the diminutive Korean had the devil’s own luck, escaping government dragnets in several countries. The President had contacted Stony Man Farm and requested that Hal Brognola see if Bolan was available to perform an extraction on short notice.

Along with much of the American intelligence community, Bolan considered North Korea to be one of the largest threats to U.S. security, second only to China. The knowledge inside Dae-jung’s head could give analysts invaluable insight into that country’s nuclear program. After hearing from the big Fed, Bolan had been on a flight to Australia in three hours.

From there it had a bewildering tour of cities around Southeast Asia. He’d picked up the high-rolling scientist’s trail in Port Moresby and had missed him by three hours in Manila. From there, Bolan had passed through the glitter of Hong Kong, Tokyo and Bangkok, until they all blurred together in swaths of neon and steel, mirrored skyscrapers and plush hotels. Every time he landed, he was just one step behind the man. Along the way, he’d crossed paths and swords with men and women from British and Russian intelligence, as well as at least two hit teams, one from North Korea and a Chinese group. Brognola and Bolan figured they wanted the scientist dead before he could reveal China’s sales of enriched plutonium and other nuclear material to the regime.

This luxury hotel was the best lead and the closest he’d been to Dae-jung so far.

The soldier finished his sweep and found an unoccupied table at the bar, ordering a ginger ale from the server who magically appeared at his elbow. “I’ve canvassed the entire casino floor. Plenty of whales swimming in this ocean, but Dae-jung isn’t one of them.”

His words were transmitted through a tiny, flesh-colored microphone glued to the base of his jaw. They were then sent through a relay of satellites back to Stony Man Farm in Virginia, and the gruff answering voice of Hal Brognola came back to him through an equally tiny earpiece in his right ear. Both communication devices were slaved to the smartphone holstered at his belt, which provided power and a signal boost as well as high-level encryption for both sides of the conversation, ensuring no eavesdroppers.

“If he’s not there, he’s probably in his room. Have you identified any hostiles on-site yet?”

“None I can see—if they are around, they’re staying out of view.”

Brognola chuckled. “Easier for them than you, eh, Striker?”

Even through his fatigue, Bolan smiled. “Yeah—unless I’m crouching, it’s hard for me to blend in. Do we know which room he’s in? There are a lot of suites in the hotel, and I’d rather not kick in the wrong door if I can help it.”

“Akira says a man matching Dae-jung’s description is staying in the Chairman Suite on the fifty-fourth floor. He’s working on getting you access to the secure elevators as we speak.”

Bolan drained his ginger ale in one long drink and set the empty glass on the table. “Tell Akira he’s got about three minutes to open those doors.” Rising, he walked toward the casino’s main doors, which slid open at his approach, the air-conditioned comfort giving way to the oppressive mugginess of Singapore at the beginning of monsoon season. The air was thick and humid, and Bolan quickened his pace across the pedestrian bridge. “The vehicle I requested is in place?”

“In the parking ramp, ground floor, space A3.”

“So all I have to do is head up there, drag Dae-jung out of his hidey-hole, bring him down with me, get to our vehicle and drive to the airport.”

“When you say it, Striker, it sounds almost reasonable. Sorry we couldn’t do anything about getting you a sidearm before you went over.”

Bolan shrugged, missing the familiar weight of his Desert Eagle under his arm. “If this guy’s traveling with the entourage you say he is, I doubt it would get past his bodyguards, and since I’m supposed to be doing this on the down low, well, the .44 is a bit conspicuous. Don’t worry—I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

“Whenever you say that, that’s exactly when I start worrying.” Bolan heard crunching in his ear and grinned, knowing Brognola had just popped one of his ever-present antacid tablets into his mouth. “However you manage to get him out, just don’t create an incident with the Singaporean government. It’s bad enough we snuck you in. I’d hate to see us trying to extradite you from one of their prisons.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.” Bolan entered the main lobby of the Marina Bay, which was decorated to look like a jungle oasis had sprung up in the middle of the huge room, with palm trees and bright orchids and ferns growing inside a walled garden, complete with a twenty-foot waterfall. The rest of the room was modern, covered in exotic hardwoods and marble.

“Okay, walk straight through the lobby and take a right on the far side. The private elevators to the towers will be straight ahead.” The voice in his ear was younger and quicker, and Bolan could hear the tinny beat of the constant rock music Stony Man Farm’s computer hacker, Akira Tokaido, always listened to when on the job.

“You get that pass worked out yet?” he asked.

“I’ve almost got it. The security suite in this place is impressive, and coming from me, that’s saying something,” Tokaido said.

Bolan reached the far end of the room and turned right as instructed. Two sets of gleaming, stainless-steel elevator doors faced him several yards away. Not breaking stride, he headed for them. “Five yards away, Akira. You better type faster.”

“Don’t you worry, I’m on it.” When Bolan was a step away from the nearest set of doors, they slid soundlessly open.

He stepped into a cylinder large enough to hold a dozen people. The doors closed behind him, and the button for floor 57 lit up. The elevator began ascending so smoothly Bolan could hardly tell it was moving. “They spared no expense for this place.”

“Yeah. Too bad you won’t have a chance to catch a meal there. The restaurants are supposed to be terrific.”

Bolan watched the floor numbers tick off. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you’re here.”

“On my salary? Hardly. Okay, you’re coming up to it. The suite will be to the right, the second door on your left. It’ll be easy to spot—it’s the one with the two bodyguards out front.”

“He couldn’t have taken a suite near the elevator, could he?”

“Come on. You wouldn’t want this to be too easy, would you? I’m cutting in an empty loop of the security camera on that floor. You know how you’re gonna get inside?”

“I’ll figure something out.” The elevator chimed softly, announcing he’d reached his destination. Bolan stepped out and looked both ways down the hall. Sure enough, two massive men wearing tuxedoes stood at ease in front of the second door on the left. Bolan headed straight for them.

The pair eyed him as he approached, their postures turning from relaxed to alert the closer he got. Bolan stopped in front of the nearer one, a Samoan man built like a mountain, with dark skin and black hair falling in ringlets to his shoulders. Despite his head-crushing demeanor, his voice was smooth and polite, with a hint of British prep school in it. “May I help you?”

Bolan decided to return the politeness. “I’m here to see Dr. Kim Dae-jung.”

The bodyguards exchanged glances, and the far one turned to face Bolan, stepping in front of the door. “I’m afraid there is no one inside by that name. Perhaps you have the wrong room.”

Bolan held his arms out enough so the hired muscle could see he wasn’t packing. “Relax, guys, I’m not carrying. If you’ll allow me…” He took out a slim leather billfold and flipped it open. “Matt Cooper, U.S. State Department. Now I know Dr. Dae-jung is inside, and all I’ll need is a few minutes of his time.” Bolan and Brognola had come up with the State Department cover together, figuring a bureaucrat would be less fearsome than a CIA officer or even the lesser-known U.S. Diplomatic Security Service.

The Samoan examined the credentials for more than thirty seconds. Bolan wasn’t concerned—they were real as far as anyone outside the State Department was concerned. “One moment, sir.” The bodyguard touched his earpiece and muttered something in what sounded like Korean.

Moments later, the bodyguard returned his attention to Bolan. “Please stand with your legs shoulder-width apart and spread your arms.” Bolan complied, and the second man ran a handheld metal detector over his body. When he was finished, the Samoan patted him down thoroughly. Satisfied that Bolan was unarmed, the second bodyguard produced a key card and swiped it through the lock on the double mahogany door, which opened to a burst of music, loud conversation in several languages, the laughter of men and women, and a swirl of smoke.

The Samoan opened the door farther for Bolan. “The doctor will be with his guests in the main room. You will be escorted at all times while inside. Do you have any questions?”

Bolan shook his head and stepped into a small foyer. He was met by a smaller Asian man, also dressed in a tuxedo, with alert eyes, a buzz cut and an unmistakable bulge under his right arm. “If you’ll follow me, sir.” He turned and escorted Bolan into the large main room.

The huge Chairman Suite more than lived up to its name. It was decorated in black wood and granite, with dark hardwood floors covered with large patterned rugs. A long black-and-silver screen depicting a flock of cranes taking off from a pond took up the far wall of the room. The furniture was modern and sleek, from the leather wingback chairs and plush couches scattered around the room to the ebony baby grand piano surrounded by several women as someone played what sounded to Bolan like some kind of show tune. The women were all singing in more than one language.

From the looks of it, the party had been going on for some time. A long, granite-topped table along one wall contained the remains of a demolished buffet, and suit jackets, evening wraps and shoes were scattered around the room. Bolan guessed the women in attendance were professionals, and as he was led deeper inside, he saw one of them lead a balding, potbellied man dressed only in an undershirt, socks and garters into another room and close the door.

Cigarette and marijuana smoke mingled, the thick, stale cloud obscuring what would probably have been a magnificent view of the city’s skyline.

The third bodyguard led Bolan to a corner of the main room, where a large, U-shaped black leather couch was currently hosting several men and women, all in various states of undress. And in the middle of it all, leading his inebriated guests in an off-key chorus of “I Did it My Way” was the man himself, Dr. Kim Dae-jung.

The man known as the driving force behind North Korea’s nuclear weapons program wasn’t much to look at. Barely clearing five feet, he was pudgy, with a bulging belly that attested to a life spent at a lab table. He wore rimless glasses and his receding black hair, normally swept back from his forehead, stuck out in all directions, as if he had just been mildly electrocuted.

Bolan stood patiently next to the bodyguard while Dae-jung and his group finished their song. His eyes and ears, however, were cataloging every person, where they were, and what they were holding or doing. He spotted two more obvious bodyguards in the room, and one of the prostitutes who he thought might be disguised to blend in with the guests.

The song finished to cheers, applause and everybody drinking a round of what smelled like sake. The bodyguard slipped over to Dae-jung’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“What? Here? Now? What does he want?” the drunken doctor bellowed. The bodyguard pointed to Bolan, and Dae-jung adjusted his glasses as he looked the soldier up and down. “Well, you State bastards finally caught up with me, didn’t you. Took you long enough.”

“I’m afraid so, Doctor, although following your trail was very…interesting. I’d like to talk to you about your accompanying me to the United States, where there are several people who are waiting to talk to you.”

Dae-jung peered at him blearily through the smudged lenses of his askew glasses. “I could have you killed, you know. It would be a great mystery. You walk into this room, but you never walk out.”

Although he was sure he could take out both of obvious and covert bodyguards without receiving a scratch, Bolan nodded. “You could, but the State Department would just send someone else to find you. Why not save both your bodyguards the trouble of disposing of me, and the U.S. government the trouble of flying someone else halfway around the world, and just come with me now?”

The diminutive scientist stared at Bolan for a few seconds, then roared with laughter. “I’ve never met a suit with a sense of humor before. Sit, sit, have a drink. You want anything else—a woman, a man, a boy, coke, hash, dust?”

Bolan slid in between Dae-Jung and the beautiful, almost-passed-out Filipino woman next to him. “I’ve only come for one person. Now that I’ve found him, it’s time to go.”

Dae-Jung poured sake into two cups, his hand trembling slightly. He looked several years older than the CIA’s most recent picture of him. Bolan wasn’t sure if that was due to the stress of being on the run, or due to living a 24/7 party lifestyle for the past few weeks.

Dae-jung picked up one of the glasses and stared into the liquor as if he might be able to see the answer to his problems in it. “I worked for those bastards and our glorious leader for twenty-four years, always maintaining the party line. I did all right, too—cars, summer homes, even vacations. But when my daughter and her entire family starved to death in 2008, well, there’s only so much a man can turn a blind eye to, right?”

Bolan nodded. “I would agree with that.”

Dae-jung suddenly held out the sake cup to him. “Before I agree to anything, you must drink with me. Otherwise, I will order my bodyguards to have you killed.” His smile said he was joking, while his eyes, suddenly clear and piercing, said he wasn’t.

Bolan accepted the glass and held it up. “To your daughter and her family—may they rest in peace.”

The drunk scientist clinked his glass against Bolan’s, spilling a rivulet of liquid down the side, then downed the shot in one gulp. Bolan followed suit, feeling the smooth rice wine heat his palate as it slid down his throat. He placed the empty glass back on the table and watched Dae-jung.

“Can I stay in Las Vegas? I’ve always wanted to see Las Vegas!” the doctor proclaimed loudly as he grabbed a magnum bottle of champagne and refilled his glass.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Always aware of the bodyguard, Bolan leaned closer to the small Korean. “However, it would be in your best interest if we were to leave now. Doubtless there are others who are looking for you as well who don’t have your well-being in mind, and if I was able to find you, they will soon, too.”

Dae-jung swigged his champagne, a drop trickling down his chin. “I’ll party tonight, then go with you tomorrow morning, sleep on the flight over.”

“With all due respect. Doctor—” Bolan was interrupted by Tokaido’s voice in his ear.

“Striker, you’ve got armed men coming down the hall—shit, they just took out both guards outside the door! They’re gonna be inside any second!”

Chapter 2

Bolan was already standing, trying to lift the drunken scientist to his feet as the bodyguard pushed through the crowd of women to intercept him.

“Hostiles are outside. You’d better check the door!” The bodyguard frowned at Bolan’s orders, but the big man wasn’t deterred. “Get over there now!”

The guard’s indecision cost him dearly. As his gaze flicked to the door, the woman Bolan had pegged as an undercover bodyguard drew a dagger—apparently ceramic, to bypass the metal detector—from a secret compartment in the bottom of her small purse, stepped behind the bodyguard and slit his throat. The man clasped both hands to his spurting neck as he sank to the floor, already dying. The woman bent over him, her hand darting inside his tux jacket for his pistol.

As men and women reacted to the cold-blooded murder, some screaming, others trying to get out of the way, Bolan stepped toward the Asian assassin and snapped a kick into her face like he was punting a football. The woman arched backward as she flew through the air, blood flying from her crushed nose. She landed on an ottoman and slid off, out cold.

Bolan moved to the dead bodyguard, scooped up the dagger from the carpet and drew the man’s pistol, a compact HK P-2000. He drew the slide back just as there was a commotion at the door—a sound like tearing cloth, followed by the crunch of splintering wood. The Executioner walked to the doctor, who was looking around befuddled as his party disintegrated into chaos. “What’s happening?”

Bolan didn’t reply. He grabbed him by his silk shirt and hauled him over the back of the couch, climbing over it and crouching as the sound of silenced gunfire could be heard on the other side of the room. More screams and shouts followed, along with angry commands yelled in Mandarin, then Korean, then English.

“Nobody move! Stand up! Everyone keep your hands where I can see them!”

Hearing the shouted orders, the confused doctor raised his hands and tried to stand, but was pulled back down by Bolan. “Doctor, I’m going to need you to stay here for the moment, all right?”

“Sure, Mister…whatever you say.”

Bolan kept one ear on what was going on in the rest of the room while he contacted Tokaido. “They’re inside, multiple gunmen. Can you give me a sitrep on where they are in the room?”

“Negative, Striker. I counted four gunmen in the hallway, but there are no cameras inside the suite. No one’s outside but the dead guards, so they must all be in there. I’m afraid that’s all the data I have right now.”

Crawling to the edge of the long couch, Bolan peeked out just enough to see two pairs of combat boots walking up and down a line of dress shoes, high heels and lots of bare feet. He couldn’t see the second pair of shooters, but muffled screams and shouts gave him a pretty good idea of where they were. More threats and the smack of a fist or gun butt on flesh were followed by crying and the addition of more feet on the floor, leaving Bolan with an even bigger problem—if he tried to take out the gunmen, there was a good chance he might hit one of the partygoers. While the chances were excellent that none of the attendees were completely innocent, as far as he knew none had done anything to warrant getting killed on this night either. But without being able to see where the gunmen were standing, it was too risky to engage them. The last thing Bolan wanted was a bloodbath in the opulent suite.

“Where’s the doctor? You have one minute to produce him, or we will shoot one of you each minute he’s not brought out.”

Hearing this, the doctor started to stand again, but Bolan pulled him back down. “Let me go—” he said before Bolan clamped a hand over his mouth.

“You have to stay down and keep quiet!” Dae-jung tried to move his head, fumbling at Bolan’s fingers. “Are you going to stay here and be quiet?” The doctor nodded, so Bolan took his hand away.

“I’m not going to let innocent people die because of me!” he whispered.

“I’m not either, Doctor, but you have to trust me.” Spotting the edge of the floor screen next to the couch, Bolan got an idea. “Please, just stay here for another minute. If I get killed, you can do whatever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

Bolan began edging behind the screen, which was only a few inches from the hotel room wall. He couldn’t move very fast without risking bumping into his cover, which would most likely get the screen and him both stitched with bullets.

“Fifteen seconds! Where is he?” the threat and demand was repeated in Korean and Chinese.

Bolan shimmied behind the screen as fast as he dared. When he reached the second one from the end, he stopped and pressed the tip of the ceramic blade to the cloth in front of him.

“Time’s up! You, come here! Get over here!” Bolan heard the smack of a fist or hand striking flesh, and gritted his teeth as he slowly drew the knife down to make a slit big enough to see through. When he put his eye to it, however, all he saw was a herringbone pattern.

One of them was standing right in front of him! However, Bolan immediately realized that wasn’t a problem, but a stroke of good fortune. Quickly he enlarged the slit until he could see the back of the man’s head.

“All right, last chance! Where is Dae-jung? Fine—she dies now!”

Bolan slipped the barrel of his pistol through the slit, the muzzle only an inch from the man’s skin. Placing the ceramic blade between his teeth and his free hand on the screen, he squeezed the trigger.

As soon as the shot went off, Bolan shoved the screen over, the ruined artwork falling on the dead gunman. Instantly he took in the scene. A group of about thirty partygoers huddled against the wall, with three gunmen in the room, two standing a few feet behind the leader, who had an Asian woman in a crimson slit sheath dress next to him, a pistol at her temple. As Bolan had expected, the three shooters stared at him with wide eyes, having been taken by surprise at their partner’s head suddenly exploding and spraying blood and brains all over them.

Also, as Bolan had hoped, except for man with the hostage, he had a perfect line of sight on the other two killers.

He lined up his pistol on the farthest one and shot him in the head, then tracked the second one and put two into his chest as he was bringing around his submachine gun. Both bodies dropped to the floor before the sound of Bolan’s shots died away.

That left him and the lead hit man, who was using the woman as a shield. “Don’t move or she dies!”

Bolan was pretty sure he could take out the man without getting the woman killed, but movement near the attacker’s foot caught his attention. The Samoan, his chest stained red from his wounds, was pulling his bulk along in the hallway. He left a thick red trail behind him, but was almost close enough to grab the man. He just needed a few more seconds.

Bolan kept his pistol trained on the small part of the gunman’s face that he could see. “I don’t want anyone else to die, but I can’t let you take the doctor out of here either.”

“He’s not going anywhere.” The hit man was starting to aim his pistol at Bolan when the Samoan plunged a butterfly knife into his target’s foot. The man screamed and his pistol went off target as he shoved the woman away and turned to shoot his attacker. He never got the chance.

Bolan squeezed the trigger of his HK pistol once. The .40 caliber bullet cored the hit man’s head, spraying the people nearest to him with more bits of bone and brain matter as the corpse fell to the floor, causing a few screams and cries from several women.

The Executioner was moving before the body landed, walking to one of the men and grabbing his submachine gun, an oversized pistol with a second handle that he recognized as a Brugger & Thomet MP-9. Both of the covering gunmen were armed with the same weapon and carried a spare 30-round magazine. Bolan tucked the HK into the small of his back and grabbed everything, tucking the spares into the pockets of his suit jacket. Then he ran back to the couch and got the scientist on his feet.

“Time to go, sir.”

“If you say so.” Keeping one of the TMPs ready, Bolan had slung the other one over his shoulder and used his free hand to support Dae-jung as they headed for the door. The doctor pasted a smile on his face and addressed the group. “I thank you all for coming, and suggest that if you don’t want to be here when the police show up, you should leave immediately.”

“Two minutes after we’re gone.” Bolan added, seeing several of the guests edging toward the door. One look at him and the lethal-looking submachine gun in his hand, and they all stopped in their tracks.

Bolan kept moving the Korean toward the door, stepping around the motionless Samoan. Dae-jung gasped when he saw the huge body. “Felipo’s dead?”

“Afraid so. If it makes you feel any better, he died saving my life.” Bolan pushed the double doors open and used the one closest to the elevator as a shield, peeking around it to scout the hallway.

“Akira, what’s the security situation?”

“You sure stirred up a hornet’s nest, Striker—”

“I didn’t bring the guns to this party, but I’m damn sure gonna use them to clear the way out. What’s the best route to get to the garage?”

“They’re putting men on every elevator. Can you take the stairs?”

Bolan glanced at Dae-jung, whose head lolled on his shoulders as he stared at his rescuer. “Negative. Target is in no condition to run down fifty-four flights.”

“Then you’ll probably want to ambush the two guards coming out of the first car, and grab that one. They’ll be there in about fifteen seconds.”

“This job just keeps getting better and better,” Bolan gritted, hauling the scientist toward the elevator.

He’d just reached the alcove when he heard the soft chime indicating the car’s arrival. Bolan propped the doctor up against the wall. “Stay here.” The Korean waved at him weakly as Bolan ran into the alcove, passing the door to stand on the other side. He got there just as the doors opened and two security guards ran out, hands on their holstered pistols. Bolan stepped out and aimed his subgun at them. “Freeze!”

Both men whirled, then raised their hands when they saw Bolan had the drop on them. He pointed at the ground. “Lie on the ground, hands on your heads!”

The two men complied. “Better hurry, Striker—a lot more are coming.”

“Going as fast as I can.” Bolan ran over to them and removed their pistols, tossing them down the hallway. Grabbing Dae-jung, he hurried the man into the elevator, making sure the guards’ eyes were staring at the polished marble floor. Bolan stabbed the button for the garage. “I hope you’ve overridden all the security on this cage.”

“Of course. What did you think I’d been doing while you were rubbing elbows with the high and mighty? You should be reaching the lowest level in approximately twenty seconds.”

“Got it. Hey, are you all right?” he asked Dae-jung, who was leaning against the elevator wall, breathing rapidly. His face was pasty, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

“I don’t—I don’t feel so well.”

“Given how much booze you put away, I’m not surprised. We’re going to a vehicle in the garage, and from there to the airport, where a plane is waiting to take you back to the United States. Just a half hour or so, and we’ll be in the air.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You will soon enough.” The elevator dinged, and Bolan grabbed Dae-jung’s shoulder and supported him as they exited, walking out into a nondescript corridor. “What the hell, Akira? Where’s the garage?”

“Those elevators don’t go directly to the parking levels. You’ll need to turn right and go approximately forty yards. There will be a door marked like the one on your smartphone that should give you access to the garage level.”

Bolan began jogging down the hallway, half-carrying, half-dragging the semiconscious scientist along with him.

“Turn at the next door on your right.”

Bolan did so and was rewarded with the bare concrete minimalism of the hotel’s garage.

“The vehicle is on this level, Bay C halfway down the aisle, a green Toyota Harrier SUV,” Tokaido said.

“Good, I have a feeling I might need the room.” Bolan checked for any movement or active vehicles on the level before hauling Dae-jung out with him and crossing to the closest concrete pillar. He had just reached it when the roar of a motorcycle shattered the silence. The driver revved his engine, the echo making it almost impossible to tell where it was coming from.

Bolan looked around for a map, and saw he had reached Bay B. “Doctor, we have to go a little further to reach my car. You still with me?”

“I think so…unless I throw up first…” The Korean scientist’s face had taken on a gray pallor, and his eyes had become even more unfocused.

“It’s just a few more yards. Hang on a bit longer and then you can rest. Here we go.”

Still supporting the semiconscious man with his free hand, Bolan kept the MP-9 ready as they started to cross the next bay. The moment they passed the immaculate black Bentley on the other side, a bright light turned on, illuminating Bolan and his charge in its halogen light. Before he could blink or aim, the light leaped forward as the motorcycle shot straight for them, the helmeted driver extending a pistol to shoot as he zoomed by.

Chapter 3

If he’d been alone, Bolan would have moved to intercept the motorcyclist and take him out, but his first goal had to be protecting Dae-jung.

He whipped the other man around, shielding him with his body as he drove him to the floor. At the same time, he brought up the MP-9 and fired a burst in the bike’s general direction. Bolan wasn’t expecting to hit anything, but he figured the surprise of finding out his prey was armed might spoil the rider’s aim.

He was right. The gunman’s nerve broke as Bolan’s weapon spit rounds near him. Swerving, he almost lost control of his blue-and-white street bike, the back wheel fishtailing on the smooth concrete floor, but pulled it out at the last second and zoomed around the ramp. His pistol shots, however, went wild.

As soon as the biker was completely past, Bolan hauled Dae-jung to his feet. “We’ve got to move!” Even as he said that, however, another single headlight lit them both up, and the garage level reverberated with the roar of the motorcycle coming at them again.

Before Bolan could even think about crossing the few yards of empty space between them and the next lot, the biker was on them, his pistol spitting bullets.

Bolan did the only thing he could do—he heaved Dae-jung over the hood of the Bentley and dived after him, hoping they both would get to cover before any of the bullets found them. He heard the thunks as the lead punched through the fender of the luxury car they hid behind. As he landed on the concrete, Bolan caught a glimpse of a yellow-and-red motorcycle racing by, its rider snapping off a shot that smacked into the low concrete wall at the head of the row, just above Bolan’s head, showering him with dusts and rock chips.

“Are we there yet?” Dae-jung asked, looking around.

“Not quite.”

Two shooters! Bolan had to admire the relative neatness of the trap they were in. With both ends blocked, no matter how he tried to advance or retreat, Bolan and Dae-jung would always be facing one or both of the bikers. Even with his submachine gun, the bikes were fast and maneuverable in the enclosed space, canceling almost all of the advantage of a fully automatic weapon.

The bikes roared again, preparing to make another run-and-gun pass. Bolan glanced at the vehicle behind them, a Lexus luxury SUV with a relatively high ground clearance. His plan formed instantly.

“Doctor, I need you to hide under here for a bit.” Bolan shoved him under the SUV.

With a strained gasp, the Korean disappeared under the SUV. Bolan hit the ground as well, trying to figure out which biker would be coming for them first.

“What the hell’s going on?” Tokaido asked.

“I’ve got two trigger-happy motorcyclists trying to take us both out in the garage!” Bolan snapped. “They’ve got us pinned down in Bay B.”

“Oh, yeah, I see ’em. Looks like the one above you is about to make another pass.”

“You can see him? How far away is he?”

“Yeah, I’m hacked into the security cams. He’s about twenty yards from you. What does that have to—”

“Perfect! Hold on!” Bolan dropped to his stomach and crawled under the Lexus, bracing his MP-9 with both hands in front of him. The bike’s engine reached a high point as the rider gunned his throttle, then took off down the ramp.

Bolan gave him a two-count to get up to speed, then squeezed the trigger of his weapon, emptying the magazine. The biker drove straight into the stream of bullets, which chewed up his leg and punched into the bike’s engine. Losing control, he spun out and flipped off the street machine, which fell over and crashed into the far wall, pinning the biker between it and the cinder blocks. Bolan rolled out and took aim in case the shooter was coming up for more, but man’s body lay unmoving on the floor.

“One down. Where’s the other one?” Bolan asked while ejecting the empty magazine and reloading.

“At the bottom of the ramp on your six. He seems uncertain—he’s not moving forward yet.”

“Good. Let me know if he starts moving in the next three seconds.” Still keeping an eye on the downed rider, Bolan moved around the back of the Bentley, crouched and crept forward until he was next to the concrete barrier. There was a chain link fence on the end.

“He’s starting to move—now!”

Bolan took a deep breath, centered himself and steadied his hands on the MP-9. The racket from the motorcycle was deafening as it approached. He waited for one more heartbeat, then pivoted around the corner, leading with the submachine gun, every sense tracking where the biker would be as he approached.

The motorcycle was almost on top of him, the biker looking left, anticipating where he expected his victims to be. He was just starting to lower his pistol, clutched in his right hand and pointed at the ceiling, to aim. But the time he saw Bolan and tried to correct, it was too late.

Bolan sighted on the rider’s chest and fired a short burst. The dozen or so bullets chopped into the man’s rib cage, pulverizing his organs, one round ricocheting up under his helmet to burrow through his jaw and into his brain. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The cluster of bullets that had mangled his chest, heart and lungs had done more than enough damage to kill him. The brain shot just brought his death ninety seconds faster.

The man fell off his bike, which, unbalanced, wobbled off into crash to the concrete. Again Bolan was moving, jogging back to the SUV and pulling Dae-jung out from underneath it. The Korean lay motionless, and for a heart-stopping moment, Bolan thought a stray round had found him. Then he twitched and a gasping snort escaped from his lips. Saliva burbled at the corner of his mouth as the scientist snored loudly.

He’d passed out!

Shaking his head, Bolan got the scientist up into a fireman’s carry and walked to the next bay. Turning and walking halfway down, he saw the brake lights of a metallic-green SUV flash twice.

“Tell me you just did that, Akira.”

“You got it, Striker. I just unlocked your doors. Dump the drunk in the back and hit the road. Your flight out of the city just touched down at Changi. The window’s only open for one hour, so you best get going.”

Bolan opened the rear passenger door and dumped Dae-jung into the seat, taking a moment to secure him with a lap belt, then got in the driver’s seat and pushed the start button. “Assuming nothing else waylays us on the road, we should arrive at the airport with time to spare.”

He backed out and headed down the ramp, careful to avoid the wrecked cycles in the lane. There was a stop bar blocking the exit lane, but as Bolan accelerated toward it, it rose out of his way, and he exited onto Bayfront Avenue. The avenue would lead to Marina Square, and eventually to the East Coast Parkway, one of the main highways circling the city, which would take him to Changi Airport.

Bolan adjusted the driver’s seat and started to breath a little easier as he sped up to match traffic. He checked his rearview mirror but didn’t see any outward sign of a disturbance—no police cars or hotel security cordoning off the entryway, no riot police storming the place. Except for a nondescript panel delivery van approaching fast with its high beams on, it seemed they had gotten away without a trace.

The van suddenly sped up until it was right on the Toyota’s bumper, its high-beam headlights flooding the entire passenger compartment with light. Bolan flipped up the mirror to redirect the beams and moved over to another lane. The van stayed right with him. Seeing only light traffic ahead, Bolan gunned the engine, the SUV leaping forward. Caught by surprise, the van driver tried to catch up, his engine roaring as he pulled alongside Bolan’s vehicle. The window in the side door opened, and a man poked out a gun barrel, aiming at him.

The moment he saw the muzzle, Bolan wrenched the Harrier’s steering wheel hard left. The SUV slammed into the van, making it veer into another lane. Seeing a semi truck ahead of them, Bolan swerved right, narrowly missing the trailer. He pushed down on the gas pedal, seeing a sign that read Changi Airport: 4 Km.

“Just have to keep this sucker rolling for another couple miles.”

“Tell me you haven’t attracted more attention.” Tokaido’s voice was resigned.

Bolan checked his mirror—the van was still on his tail. “Must be the motorcycle jockeys’ backup. It looks big enough to hold two bikes. Hang on, they’re coming up again.”

The van was creeping up on the driver’s side once more. Bolan let it come, even setting the cruise control on the SUV to about eighty miles per hour and resting the loaded MP-9 in his lap. He checked his side mirror, watching the van inch closer to his Toyota. Although traffic on the highway was fairly heavy at this hour, Bolan couldn’t wait to find an empty spot to take out his pursuers. The other drivers would just have to take their chances.

“Just try not to attract any police,” Tokaido said. “Your current cargo would be very difficult to explain to the local constabulary.”

Bolan checked his mirrors again, gauging the distance. “Don’t worry, I have every intention of ending this as quickly as possible.”

The van surged forward, now only about ten yards away. A shadow appeared in the van’s side window again, and that was when Bolan made his move.

Holding the wheel steady with his left hand, he lowered the driver’s window, stuck out the MP-9, and emptied the magazine into the van’s windshield. The laminated safety glass was tough, but not designed to take that kind of abuse. It shattered into hundreds of tiny nuggets as the burst of fire chopped the heads and chests of the driver and front passenger into pâté.

With no one at the wheel, the van slewed to the left, cutting off a BMW as it careened hard into the concrete divider, sparks flying as its front fender crumpled under the impact. Bolan glanced back in time to see it flip onto its side, skidding down the road toward him. Increasing the gas, Bolan watched the van recede in his rearview mirror as the traffic began to slow and bottleneck behind it.

About a mile later, he reached the turnoff for the airport and took it. “Where am I going, Akira?”

“Follow the signs for T2 Boulevard, and keep bearing right. Your private jet is awaiting you at the second hangar.”

Bolan rounded one more turn and saw a sleek Gulfstream G650 jet waiting. “Well, at least I get to ride back in style.”

“You can thank the State Department for the ride. Word is they confiscated it from a drug smuggler in Bogotá, and Hal has the pull to use it, no questions asked.”

Bolan pulled up next to the hangar and turned off the engine.

Sliding out of the driver’s seat, Bolan opened the back passenger door and unbuckled his cargo, who was still snoring loudly. “Slept through the whole thing.”

Tossing the unconscious man over his shoulder, Bolan headed for the entry stairs to the jet.

“Good to see you, Mr. Cooper. I trust you had a pleasant time in Singapore?” The pilot grinned.

“What the hell’re you doing here, Jack?”

Jack Grimaldi pushed back the pilot’s cap on his head and grinned. “Well, Dragon Slayer is undergoing some upgrades to its flight computers, and Able and Phoenix are handling missions that don’t need my special talents, so when Hal said they needed someone to extract your ass out of Singapore, and that the someone would be piloting a brand-new Gulfstream, who was I to refuse?”

Bolan grinned at his long-time pilot and good friend’s enthusiasm. “Well, let me stow my package and let’s get out of here. I’m due a long rest after chasing this guy all over Southeast Asia for the past two weeks, and this flight’ll be a good start.”

“Aww, and here I thought you and I’d hit the town once you’d wrapped up your business.” Grimaldi followed Bolan up the steps, poking the limp Dae-jung. “Anyone I should know?”

“Only if you have a terrible interest in North Korea’s nuclear program.”

“Nah, I’ll leave that to the government types.” Grimaldi activated the door controls to seal the door and pressurize the interior as he headed to the cockpit while Bolan secured their passenger. As he sat Dae-jung in a plush, white leather captain’s chair, the scientist convulsed once, then hunched over and vomited—all over the carpet and Bolan’s shoes.

Staring at the mess, Bolan just shook his head. “Perfect.”

Chapter 4

Binoculars in hand, Park Ranger Sarah Dantlinger scanned the rocky terrain, searching for the slightest movement below as the Bell 206A JetRanger helicopter skimmed over Yellowstone National Park at one thousand feet. Beside her, pilot Mark Azoff kept the chopper straight and level as he perused the lush forest and grassy meadows on their left side.

“Got anything yet?” she asked over the intercom.

“Nope. You’re sure they’re out here somewhere?”

“That’s what ground said—five hikers on a day trip along Specimen Ridge. I just wish we’d had more information from their distress call.”

The two park rangers were looking for a family of five that had called in a patchy distress call on a cell phone. Since the call was too garbled to make out exactly what they were saying, headquarters had dispatched Dantlinger and Azoff in the Bell to locate the hikers and assess their situation.

Dantlinger continued scanning the area, her Zeiss binoculars making the parched meadows and forest leap into sharp relief below. She caught a black bear foraging for food to add to its winter bulk, and a fox that was there one moment and gone the next as the chopper’s clatter made it dart into the underbrush.

“Wait a minute! I got a trail!” Azoff slewed the Bell around so Dantlinger could get a look at the line of crushed grass that meandered across a field and petered out in some foothills. Following the line with her optics, Dantlinger saw a man waving his shirt over his head about one hundred yards away.

“Got ’em! Can you put it down here?”

“It looks all right from here, but that grass could be hiding a stump, branch, or rock—too dangerous to risk a full touchdown. I’m gonna have to hover and let you off.”

“Okay.”

Thirty seconds later, Dantlinger opened the door and stepped out onto the landing skid. Holding her flat-brimmed ranger’s hat in her hand, the wash from the rotors made her blink against the powerful wind. The ground was a few feet below, and she jumped carefully, ready to tuck and roll if she had to. Fortunately she landed on solid, level ground. Ducking as she sprinted away from the blurred blades spinning overhead, Dantlinger ran to the man, who hadn’t come out to meet her, but was waiting at the base of the hill.

“Thanks for coming. Hey, where’s he going?” the man asked as Azoff powered the chopper back into the air. He was only a few inches taller than Dantlinger’s five-feet-six-inches, with the beginnings of a pot belly. He was inappropriately dressed for the season, in khaki cargo pants, a T-shirt and the plaid, short-sleeved madras shirt he’d used as a signal. Despite the short autumn day, his face was pink from exposure to the sun.

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