Mack Bolan’s combat senses cried out

Killing his flashlight, he hovered in the darkness for a moment and stared at the bend in the tunnel twenty feet ahead of him. Seconds later, he saw white beams of light playing over the surface and heard the roar of air bubbles expelling from regulators coming out of time with his own breathing.

His opponents had to know he was lying in wait for them. If he could hear them, it stood to reason that the reverse was also true.

Fisting his knife, he waited until the men rounded the corner, one after the other. Each was armed with a speargun and wore a light affixed to his forehead. Bolan surged forward, slicing in a downward arc and skimming along the tunnel’s bottom. As he descended, a pair of spears fired overhead, cutting through the space he occupied moments before.

Bolan didn’t give the men time to reload.

MACK BOLAN®

The Executioner

#237 Hellfire Trigger

#238 Crimson Tide

#239 Hostile Proximity

#240 Devil’s Guard

#241 Evil Reborn

#242 Doomsday Conspiracy

#243 Assault Reflex

#244 Judas Kill

#245 Virtual Destruction

#246 Blood of the Earth

#247 Black Dawn Rising

#248 Rolling Death

#249 Shadow Target

#250 Warning Shot

#251 Kill Radius

#252 Death Line

#253 Risk Factor

#254 Chill Effect

#255 War Bird

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

The Executioner®

Death Gamble

Don Pendleton

I cannot be intimidated from doing that which my judgment and conscience tell me is right by any earthly power.

—Andrew Jackson 1767-1845

I will show the true meaning of justice and terror to those who would hurt or kill innocents.

—Mack Bolan

To Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl (1963–2002) who died at the hands of cowards while upholding the people’s right to know. He was working for us all.

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

Prologue

Nevada

Some men became killers reluctantly, accidentally. Not Talisman. He loved a good blood bath and had traveled halfway across the world to immerse himself in one. The big African soldier checked his watch and knew that in another twenty minutes he’d be rewarded for the sweet anticipation that had nagged him for days.

He checked the load on his AK-47, then stared at Trevor Dade’s campuslike home. The thirty-acre compound rose out of the desert like an ostentatious oasis—bright lights, fountains, palm trees, glittering swimming pools and hot tubs dotted the landscape. Three Mercedes convertibles were parked along the circular driveway fronting the luxurious home.

The compound’s big gates rolled open and a convoy of SUVs glided into the night, headlights slicing through the inky blackness. They would follow a series of access roads and ultimately catch Nevada’s highways, taking the afternoon shift’s guards home for the night.

The third-shift crew was inside, getting its briefing. Talisman checked his watch: 11:02 p.m. In six minutes the anal-retentive crew chief would usher the guards outside, just as he did every evening, and send them to their positions.

Talisman ran his fingers over the control board of the small device sitting on its rocky pedestal next to his right knee. A series of lights and beeps told him the device was ready to go.

The Russian had said the apparatus would knock out communication between the security team members and their home base, the Haven. Suddenly, the guards would find themselves isolated and would fall in short order. Or so the Russian said. And considering how badly he wanted Dade, Talisman was inclined to believe what the man told him.

At the same time, the Insider—Talisman didn’t even know the Russian’s name—with the help of that crazy bastard William Armstrong, planned to ignite a series of explosions miles away, creating a disturbance sure to draw the helicopter security team’s attention.

In twenty-four hours, Talisman would be back in Africa a little richer and his blood lust satiated—at least for a while. Shadows drifted in and settled around him—a group of his best soldiers and former Spetsnaz commandos—and they waited to spill blood on American soil.

It was just a taste of the carnage to come.

“SON OF A BITCH!”

The cool desert air pressed against Ethan Sharpe’s face as he stormed from the sprawling home and into the black, starless night. He slammed the oak door behind him, ground his teeth together and bit down on another curse. Hoping for a moment that the other man would let the outburst slide, he sensed a pair of eyes scrutinizing him and knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“What’s eating you?” Danny Bowen asked.

Sharpe jerked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the house behind him. The words spilled out before he could censor them.

“In there is what’s bothering me,” he said. “Dade. He may be a hot-shit scientist, but he’s a poor excuse for a man. He sure as hell doesn’t deserve the kind of protection we give him.”

“Not our job to decide that, Ethan.”

Sharpe shot his friend a withering look. He realized the guy was right, and replaced it with a grim smile and a shrug.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Hell, I shouldn’t be griping to you, anyway. I’m the damn team leader.”

Bowen punched Sharpe on the shoulder. “But I’m the voice of reason. That’s why you keep me around.”

Sharpe knew that much was true. The two men had become friends, sweating their way through Ranger school together and serving in the same overseas hot zones, even standing as best man at each other’s weddings. Sharpe was the hothead; Bowen was a master of tact and diplomacy. If Bowen thought Sharpe ought to suck it up, then by God Sharpe knew he ought to listen.

He exhaled loud and long. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, but maintained its edge. “It burns me to watch this guy snorting coke, hiring hookers, drinking himself into oblivion—all on the company dime. Every night it’s the same thing. It makes me sick.”

Bowen nodded. “Yeah, but you’d still lay down your life for him, wouldn’t you?”

Sharpe didn’t hesitate. “Hell yes.”

“Damn straight you would. That’s because you’re a good man. So don’t let him get under your skin. Only things we need to fret about are the UFO freaks and scorpions.”

Sharpe let his smile widen and felt his shoulder muscles loosen when he did. “I’m rooting for the scorpions. Now get the hell out of here before I write you up.”

Bowen nodded and disappeared into the darkness. Sharpe ran over his statements in his mind, kicking himself for what he’d said. He trusted his friend not to share them with anyone else. But it was so damn unprofessional.

It also was true. Dade had become a liability. His drug habit and whore chasing had landed him in trouble. And word was the main headquarters was ready to cut the man loose.

But first they wanted Dade to finish the Nightwind project. Wanted it so bad that the company was willing to overlook the scientist’s troubled ways while he wrapped up the project. Sharpe wasn’t supposed to know any of this, of course, but he’d caught enough gossip and filled in the blanks with his own observations. It didn’t take a genius to discern what was going on.

So Sharpe had tried to keep his moral judgments to himself—not something that came naturally. Every now and then, like tonight, his disgust bubbled to the surface. Otherwise, he’d put up and shut up. Be a good soldier. Even if his only reward was a gaping hole in his stomach.

TEN MINUTES PASSED, and Sharpe decided to check in with the troops. “Hawk command to team. Check in.”

“Hawk One okay.”

“Hawk Two okay.”

“Hawk Three same traffic.”

A pause from Hawk Four, Bowen.

The hair on the back of Sharpe’s neck bristled. What the hell, Danny? Check in. “Hawk Four, status check.”

“Hawk Four,” Bowen replied. “I’ve picked up a couple of warm spots on the infrared scan. Looks like two bodies on a ridge.”

Shit. “I’ll back you up, Hawk Four,” Sharpe said. “The rest of you hold your positions. Look alive and watch your backsides.”

The team members acknowledged the radio traffic with terse replies. Sharpe drew a micro-Uzi from his custom rig and trudged forward, boots smacking first against concrete and then sand. Bowen was patrolling the compound’s southern quadrant. It would take Sharpe ninety seconds to get there.

In Sharpe’s line of work, ninety seconds was ample time for things to go straight to hell.

“They moving on us, Danny?” he asked.

“Negative. Just two blips on the mountain. Probably a couple teenagers screwing. Or someone watching the sky for little green men. You guys chill. I can handle this myself.”

“Negative. I’ll be there in a few seconds.”

“You’re the boss. But don’t say I didn’t tell you so if it turns out to be some harmless freak squad.”

Bowen had a point. During the past month, Sentinel Industries had taken the Nightwind—a laser-equipped jet fighter—on a series of midnight test runs. Inevitably, the sight of a strange aircraft had stoked the curiosity of local UFO buffs and conspiracy theorists. Armed with cameras, sketch pads and binoculars they had descended in droves upon the barren desert surrounding Sentinel’s research and development site. The security teams usually rewarded the curious with an armed escort from the property and stern warnings to stay away. But some of them just couldn’t resist a return trip.

Maybe it was nothing, but Sharpe’s instincts told him otherwise.

Bowen’s voice, taut with panic, sounded in Sharpe’s headset, jerking him from his thoughts.

“There’s more and they’re coming over the wall,” Bowen said. “They’re dressed in black and armed to the teeth. Must be a dozen of them. I think they saw me.”

Bowen came into view, backpedaling furiously and raising his M-16 as he tried to find cover against the small army bearing down on him.

Bowen cut loose with his M-16. Jagged yellow muzzle-flashes and the chatter of autofire split the night. He swept the weapon across the top of the ten-foot security wall, hosing it down with a swarm of 5.56 mm tumblers. Sharpe heard return fire crackle and saw bullets smack into the ground around Bowen’s feet.

“I’ve got your back, Hawk Four,” Sharpe said.

Sharpe squeezed the micro-Uzi’s trigger. The weapon spit flame and lead as he fired into a trio of men who’d already hit the ground and begun to fan out. One of the men whirled in Sharpe’s direction and brought a weapon to bear on the security chief. Sharpe tapped out a burst that stitched the man from groin to throat. Sharpe ripped an identical weapon from his harness.

More gunshots lanced around him, forcing him to thrust his body behind one of the team’s armored SUVs. Bowen was still out there. Sharpe’s headset flared to life. “Hawk Leader, what’s your status?”

“Taking fire. Hawk Two and Three, get over here and back us up. Hawk One stay put, raise central command and get us reinforcements. Watch our butts. I don’t want to get hit from behind.”

Gunfire split the air around him. Gravel crunching under boots caught his attention. One of the blacksuited men came around the SUV’s front end and drew down on the security chief. Sweeping his weapon low, Sharpe loosed a quick burst and took the man’s legs out from under him. The guy screamed, dropped his weapon and jerked as lead chewed through flesh and bone. He stumbled backward and, as Sharpe eased off the trigger, the man fell to the ground.

Bullets crashed into the SUV. Sharpe saw the injured man’s right hand scrambling along the ground for his lost weapon. Sharpe planted another burst into the man, killing him instantly.

He hadn’t heard any more radio traffic, and a cold splash of fear traveled down his back. “This is Hawk leader. Units, report in.”

Silence. He tried twice more and got the same results. His luck was equally bad when he tried to reach central command for help. Somehow his state-of-the-art communications system had been jammed.

And where the hell was Bowen?

Moving in a crouch, Sharpe came around the SUV’s back end, crunching brass shell casings underfoot as he did. He caught sight of Bowen, who’d taken refuge behind a brick barbecue pit and was reloading his M-16.

Sharpe watched as twin ribbons of gunfire lanced out of the darkness and converged on Bowen’s torso. The impact whipsawed the man, shredded clothing and flesh and launched him into a grotesque death dance. His head jerked violently, and he tumbled to the ground.

Bowen’s sightless eyes stared at Sharpe, who felt his body go numb. A scream of rage rumbled forth from deep inside him, and he began firing the Uzis at anything that moved. He downed two gunners in rapid succession before his weapons went dry, one right after the other.

Ejecting the magazines, he moved back behind the armored vehicle. Motion to his right caught his attention. Sharpe turned, looked up and saw a helmeted figure ten yards to the west of him.

A laser sight’s red dot rested on Sharpe’s forehead, then everything went black.

TREVOR DADE EYED the woman he viewed as his latest acquisition. He decided she’d do as Sentinel Industries’ going away present to him.

She was a petite, shapely brunette, decked out in a red minidress. She had exposed shoulders, her arms and legs were lithely muscled, smooth and feminine, but pronounced enough to register with him. She was built more like a tennis player or a gymnast than a call girl. Good, he thought as he appraised her like a used car. A woman ought to keep herself in shape. Especially for the money he was shelling out.

Seated on the couch, legs tucked under her, she’d asked him where he came from, about his job, all the usual small talk. She absorbed his curt answers with the feigned interest Dade had come to expect from the endless parade of hookers that populated his life. When he mentioned he designed laser systems for the military, she’d perked up and asked him questions. Dade brushed them off, figuring she was too stupid to understand.

He splashed some Scotch into his glass over ice, added soda and a cocktail onion. He dropped a crumbled Ecstasy tablet into his drink and stirred. She had requested straight vodka. He poured two fingers of liquor into a glass and spiked the drink with a sedative. Word had come minutes earlier that it was all going down later this night and Dade wanted the woman unconscious, dragged away, dumped elsewhere. Whether she lived mattered little to him; he just didn’t want to be associated with her. One dead hooker connected with him was enough. It had been enough to set everything in motion.

Tonight I get to play victim, he thought. Go out in style.

A smile tugged at his mouth.

“What are you thinking?” the woman asked. She also smiled, anticipating a shared joke.

“Nothing,” Dade grumbled. She frowned momentarily, recovered and plastered her hundred-dollar-per hour smile back across her face. Taking a long pull from her drink, she eyed him over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she said. “So, how long are you in town?”

“Leaving tonight. Within the hour. I’m flying out.” Dade had been told to expect extraction by helicopter.

The woman set the drink in her lap, feigning disappointment. “Tonight? I’d hoped to spend more time with you.”

“I’ll pay for the whole night,” he snapped. “You’ll have to earn a living someplace else tomorrow.”

A storm of anger swelled in her eyes but passed just as quickly. She unfolded her legs, set her feet on the floor and shifted across the couch to him. She placed a hand on his thigh.

“I guess we should get started then,” she said.

“That’s what I’m paying you for. First, finish your drink. I haven’t got all damn night.”

Shedding her veneer of civility, she gulped the remainder of the spiked vodka and slammed the glass on the coffee table. “No, you don’t. Not with me, anyway.”

He shrugged, settling into the couch, hoping to get his money’s worth before the drugs kicked in and the shooting started.

As she began to unfasten her dress, machine guns rattled outside, startling them both. He pushed the woman away and looked at the wall clock: 11:23. They’d come a half hour before they’d said they would.

He’d drill the Russian for this.

The woman looked at him. Her mouth started to open, to form a question. He put a finger to his lips to silence her.

“Shut up,” he said, “and let me check this out.”

Draining his drink, he rose from the couch with a grunt, shambled to a window and peered through it. Muzzle-flashes interrupted the darkness, momentarily illuminating the shooters. In the repeated glare, Dade saw members of his security entourage twisting, dying, under repeated bursts of gunfire.

Too bad about most of those guys, Dade thought. Except for Sharpe. Sanctimonious prick constantly looked down his nose at Dade. He’d never snort coke with Dade, or shack up with a hooker for an evening, even when Dade offered to pay. Dade wasn’t dying to party with the guy; he just liked to own things. And employees who took drugs on the job or married men who screwed around would sign away their souls to keep from being found out. Dade was only too happy to provide the paperwork.

But Sharpe, with his uptight, superhero morality, hadn’t been for sale. Dade had no use for him.

He turned. The woman stood behind him, trying to peer around his bulk to see what was happening outside. Her eyes looked clouded, and she struggled to stand. Dade assumed the drug was kicking in.

“What’s happening? Who’s shooting?” She slurred her words.

He shoved her hard back into the couch. “Sit down, shut up,” he said. “No one’s going to hurt us. I have people outside.”

“We should call for help,” she cried.

“Stay where you are. I’ll handle this.”

The woman looked like she wanted to stand, but she found herself unable to do so as the drugs raced through her system, claimed her will. She stayed seated, fought to keep her eyes open. Dade ignored her. He returned to the bar, fixed another drink. He heard gunshots and screams outside. What possessed these men to lay down their lives to protect someone? he wondered. Even someone as important as him?

He gulped his drink and prepared another.

Dade looked at the woman. She remained on the couch, eyes closed, head cocked to one side, asleep. He stepped behind the bar, withdrew a leather valise and set it on the bar. Popping the case open, he checked its contents, making sure the disks remained inside.

The disks contained the sum total of Dade’s dozen or so years of hard work developing the Nightwind aircraft. The world thought the best America could muster were lumbering jetliners outfitted with massive, sometimes unreliable laser-weapons systems. Sentinel and the U.S. military had been only too happy to perpetuate that belief, even as the Feds secretly funneled billions into the Nightwind program.

Sentinel had given Dade the proverbial blank check. In return, he had created a product expected to generate untold billions in revenue while also providing the military with the ultimate weapon.

Now they planned to repay him with a pink slip.

When the gunfire outside finally stopped, Dade stepped into the foyer and peered through the peephole. An army of strangers surrounded the door. A battering ram hit the oak portal with a dull thud. He considered keying in the security code, letting them in the easy way, but decided against it. Let them work for him.

He was, after all, the prize.

1

Freetown, Sierra Leone

It would be so damn easy.

Mack Bolan settled the crosshairs on the murderer’s nose, rested his finger on the Remington 700 sniper rifle’s trigger and paused.

He could finish the job in an instant, send a bullet crashing into the skull of the man who called himself Talisman, silencing the dozens of tortured souls crying out for retribution.

He’d come to West Africa looking for a kidnapped American scientist. He needed to figure out how a former Revolutionary United Front commander—and rapist and murderer—was tied into a kidnapping that occurred thousands of miles away in the Nevada desert.

After that, all bets were off.

Decked out in his black combat suit, face smeared in black combat cosmetics, Bolan had positioned himself on a rooftop fifty yards from the kill zone. The vantage point allowed him to get the lay of the land before he raided Talisman’s compound. Through the scope’s magnification, Bolan watched as Talisman took a pull from a joint, held the smoke for several seconds, exhaled. The killer smiled and passed the joint to one of his subordinates who obediently took a hit and passed it on.

Physically, the man was impressive. Talisman stood four inches taller than Bolan, and moved with the grace and confidence of a veteran soldier. The dossier provided by Stony Man Farm had indicated that the African, a former army officer, had gone rogue nearly a decade ago, joining sides with those sworn to unseat the government. Since then, he’d been linked with the rape, dismemberment and murder of countless individuals.

Bolan had no trouble believing the man was a coldblooded killer. Talisman carried a long-handled ax in his belt and an AK-47 hung from his shoulder.

Setting down his rifle, Bolan tugged at his collar to release the heat from inside his sweat-soaked shirt, and considered what he had seen so far. Several gunners milled about the compound, swigging beer and smoking. The smoke, coupled with the stench of rotting sewage and perspiration, hung in the humid air and assailed Bolan’s senses.

Two of the gunners concentrated on the job at hand, scanning the immediate perimeter for intruders.

The hardsite consisted of a large single-story building constructed of concrete blocks and roofed with rust-tinged corrugated metal. Several smaller buildings ringed the main structure. Fences topped with razor wire held the verdant jungle at bay on three sides of the rectangular property. In the distance, Bolan could see Lumley Beach and the white lights of boats traversing the ocean.

Peeling paint, rusting roofs, sagging walls and roaming livestock contrasted sharply with the signs of prosperity littering the property.

A half-dozen Toyotas, Mercedes and BMWs, caked in dirt, but otherwise brand-new, were parked around the compound. A satellite dish was perched on the roof of the compound’s largest building.

Moreover, the weapons carried by Talisman’s gunners nagged at Bolan. He had expected to face down AK-47 copies, the Saturday-night Special of developing nations. But of the men carried new Beretta 92-F pistols, M-4 assault rifles with grenade launchers and Remington shotguns. Several of the men, including Talisman, wore headsets for communication.

Talisman had either bought the toys with blood money from the diamonds he sold, or someone was bankrolling him. This begged the question whom? But Bolan dismissed it from his mind as quickly as it had entered. If there was more to this than met the eye—and he was sure there was—he’d unearth it after he grabbed the scientist and returned the man to safety.

If he could get the scientist. A sinking feeling told him the mission had been compromised from the start, that he might be walking straight into a death trap.

Over his protests and those of Hal Brognola, head of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, a team from the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Services had been drafted to participate in the raid. Bolan preferred to work alone. Failing that, he wanted the warriors of Phoenix Force or Able Team covering his back. Unfortunately, both teams had been on missions elsewhere. The President had insisted that Bolan have someone waiting in the wings as a contingency plan, in case he took a bullet and couldn’t pull off the rescue.

The State Department team had gone MIA, and so had Bolan’s confidence in the mission. But the clock was ticking, and he couldn’t wait for a better time to make his play.

Bolan inventoried his weapons. The Beretta 93-R with its attached custom sound suppressor was holstered in his left armpit. A .44 Magnum Desert Eagle rode on his right hip. He cradled a sound-suppressed Heckler & Koch MP-5 SO-3, the lead weapon on this assault. A .357 Colt Python with a 2.5-inch barrel was snug in the small of his back, standing by as a last-chance weapon if everything else went to hell. He carried ammunition for the various weapons, a Ka-Bar fighting knife and an assortment of grenades on his combat harness and in the various pockets of his black combat suit. He unloaded his rifle, pocketed the cartridges and left the empty weapon on the roof. The rifle was great for distance, but its size and mule’s kick recoil made it impractical for the up close and personal war he was about to wage.

Descending from his vantage point like a silent wraith, Bolan hit the ground and moved toward the compound, crouching in the shadows of a small shed, twenty-five yards from the knot of hardmen. He watched as Talisman laughed and cuffed one of his men on the temple. The man spun away while the others howled in delight. Talisman turned and disappeared inside the sagging house.

There were two guards outside.

Or so Bolan hoped.

Like a sleek jungle cat, the warrior bore down on his prey with deadly efficiency, using shadows and car bodies to shroud his approach.

Bolan crept up on his target, a man smoking a cigarette and scanning the surrounding vegetation with infrared binoculars. As he closed the gap between himself and the hardman, he heard the guy’s headset crackle to life.

Spotters.

In a single fluid motion, the man wheeled toward Bolan and raised his weapon. The M-4’s barrel was ablaze as the stubby assault rifle churned out 5.56 mm rounds that flew high and wide to Bolan’s right. Without a doubt, the guy was fast; but Bolan was faster and he had the drop.

Bolan loosed a burst that hammered the man’s center mass, knocking him off his feet as though he’d just been struck by a thirty-foot tidal wave.

Suddenly gunfire flared toward Bolan from the surrounding jungle, chewing into the ground and kicking up geysers of dirt around his feet. He dropped into a crouch and darted left. He stroked the MP-5’s trigger on the run and sprayed the jungle with a torrent of 9 mm rippers. The hail of gunfire bought him a couple of seconds and he started for the house.

Another guard stepped across his path, a Beretta 92-F extended in a two-handed grip, the muzzle locked on Bolan’s head. The man hesitated for a moment, giving the big American a chance to squeeze off another burst from his weapon. The slugs slammed into his target, striking the hip and continuing diagonally across the man’s abdomen, chest and shoulder. The guard crashed to the ground in a dead heap.

Cracking a fresh clip into the H&K, Bolan continued toward the house. He’d hoped to take out the men with knives and silenced weapons. But that idea was shot to hell, thanks to the army of unseen spotters tracking his movements.

Where the hell had they come from? Bolan wondered. He had scoured the area for backup troops and had found nothing. He’d even made a second sweep when the State Department men had failed to show. Had he missed something?

He didn’t have time to second-guess himself.

Several men spilled from the doorway of Talisman’s stronghold, firing assault rifles and automatic pistols in Bolan’s direction. The warrior plucked a fragmentation grenade from his web gear. Pulling the pin, he lobbed the bomb toward his attackers and threw himself behind a nearby Mercedes. The weapon exploded, causing thunder, orange yellow flames and screams to pierce the compound.

Bolan peered around the Mercedes’ front end and surveyed the damage wrought by the grenade. Some hardmen were dead; others, soaked in their own blood, fire chewing through garments and flesh as they screamed, shook or gasped for breath. Bolan plowed through the dead and dying, plugging an occasional mercy round into the wounded as he closed in on the house.

More gunfire streamed out of the jungle, whipping around Bolan, passing just inches from his body. He wheeled and spotted a pair of men simultaneously sprinting from the brush and converging on him from opposite directions. Caressing the H&K’s trigger, Bolan laid down a sustained burst and hosed the men down.

A dull thud sounded behind him. Anyone else would have missed the sound amid the sounds of battle, but not Bolan. He had senses, combat instincts, honed to a keen edge from countless battles. Turning, he saw a grenade in the dirt just a few yards from where he stood. If lucky, he had three seconds or so before the numbers dropped to zero and he found himself in the heart of a deadly firestorm.

A door, Bolan’s only hope of refuge, yawned open before him. A gunner with blood in his eyes folded himself around the doorframe and drew down on Bolan with an assault rifle.

Caught in a no-win situation, Bolan did the only thing he could.

Legs pumping, heart slamming into overdrive, he closed in on the house and hurled himself forward into what seemed a certain death.

RYTOVA WATCHED the big soldier fighting it out with Talisman’s men while also taking fire from behind, and decided she’d seen enough.

Cradling an Uzi tricked out with a sound suppressor, she pushed her way through the tangles of trees and vegetation surrounding Talisman’s compound and closed in on the fence surrounding the property. Autofire crackled ahead of her, a din occasionally interrupted by screams or a pistol’s lone bark.

Rytova stepped into a morass of mud, a leftover from the rainy season, and felt her foot sink up to the ankle. She grimaced and cursed under her breath. If indeed there was a hell on Earth, this African sinkhole qualified. Pulling her leg free, she continued on. Perspiration slicked her palms, and she worried it might cause the Uzi to slip from her hands at a critical moment. Moisture-laden air and sweat-soaked clothing clung to her trim form like a second skin, at times seemingly suffocating her. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and hidden under a black baseball cap, but loose wet strands clung to the back of her neck. What the hell was she doing here?

She pushed the grousing from her mind and instead focused on the job at hand. She’d come to Africa looking for the man—the monster—who’d decimated her entire life.

Nikolai Kursk.

The very thought of his name stoked a fiery rage within that scorched her heart and soul and seemed her only companion. The bastard had robbed her of everything—killed the two men who’d meant the most two her, her husband and her father. Normally, Kursk barely would remember either one. However, during the past several months, Rytova had taken steps to insure he’d never forget them.

God knew she wouldn’t.

Her friends in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service—the small number of men and women willing to stand up to the Russian Mafia’s murder machine—had said Kursk was in Africa, but didn’t know exactly where. To get that information, she needed to talk to someone on the inside of Kursk’s organization, specifically his African operations. Talisman, who ran guns and diamonds for the butcher she sought, filled the bill perfectly.

She’d expected to find Talisman and his gunners lounging, drunk or stoned out of their minds, easy pickings. Instead she found them engaged in a full-fledged firefight with a stranger. The hell of it was, the stranger seemed to be winning.

She watched as he wheeled, fired on a pair of gunners who burst from the surrounding brush and unloaded weapons in his direction. Both died in a hail of gunfire as the man fanned a sound-suppressed submachine gun in their direction. The weapon seemed an extension of the man, an appendage wielded with deadly efficiency,

The powerful man dressed in black reminded Rytova of Dmitri, strong and confident in battle. But—and it felt a form of sacrilege to think this—the stranger was even more so; he was like a human cyclone, ripping through his opponents with an ease that seemed almost impossible.

Still, he was outnumbered. And no single person could survive against those odds.

Staying in a crouch, she tunneled through the heavy jungle foliage surrounding the killing field and closed in on the compound. Tracing the muzzle-flashes emanating from within the jungle, she pinpointed at least two of the gunners. One was positioned fifty yards northeast of her; a second was closer, about twenty yards straight north. She moved in that direction.

Rytova had brought a pair of night-vision goggles with her, but had decided against using them. Outdoor halogen spotlights powered by an unseen generator illuminated Talisman’s stronghold, and accidental exposure to intense light while wearing the goggles could have left her temporarily blind.

As it was, the lights threw off enough glare to make trudging through the jungle manageable. And, under the circumstances, manageable was about the best she could hope for.

She wasn’t sure if the man tearing up the compound was a law-enforcement officer or a military operative. Perhaps Talisman had run afoul of his handler and Kursk had ordered him hit. She dismissed that thought outright. Odds were the man wasn’t carrying out a hit at Kursk’s behest—he’d send in an army, not a single man, even someone with this man’s fighting prowess.

Subtlety wasn’t Kursk’s style. She’d learned that painful lesson months ago.

Anger again burned through her body and a coppery taste filled her mouth. She swallowed hard and gripped her Uzi tighter. Let the mystery fighter try his head-on assault. She’d rely on stealth.

She came in behind one of the gunners. He shouldered an assault rifle and stared through a scope, apparently trying to catch the black-suited stranger in the weapon’s crosshairs.

She drew down on him with the Uzi, hesitated. She’d killed before, but always in head-on attacks. Could she shoot a man from behind?

Her quarry suddenly stiffened and turned, swiveling at the waist as he sought her out with his rifle muzzle. She hadn’t made a sound, so how did he know she was closing in? Was it instinct or had someone warned him of her approach via his headset communicator? Sloppy, she was so blasted sloppy. She was thinking like an intelligence analyst again, ignoring her paramilitary training.

Dmitri never would have been taken this way.

But he also wasn’t here which was, after all, the whole point.

She stroked the Uzi’s trigger, and the weapon coughed out a short burst that tunneled through the man’s face, pulverizing his head and knocking him backward, as though an invisible rug had been pulled from under his feet. His gun hand flew up, and in a final reflexive move he triggered his weapon. A brief flurry of bullets stabbed skyward before the weapon fell silent and dropped to the ground. A fresh fusillade burned the air around Rytova, slugs tearing their way through the foliage and buzzing around her like a swarm of angry bees.

She threw herself headlong to the ground and landed next to the dead gunner. Bullets smacked into the corpse’s chest, which was sheathed in a Kevlar vest, causing it to jerk around under the impact.

The indiscriminate pattern of fire told Rytova these men weren’t a legitimate security force. Fingers working gingerly as bullets flew overhead, Rytova unhooked the man’s portable radio and headset, and slipped them on.

Someone was calling, “Lynch? Lynch?” When no one answered, she assumed Lynch was the fallen man next to her. She rolled away, putting precious distance between herself and the fire zone. The voice on the radio continued. “Cole, if we keep firing in there, Lynch is sure to get hit in the cross fire. He might be injured or unconscious.”

Another voice. “I don’t give a shit. Guy should have been watching his back instead of leaving it for us to do. If he gets killed, I eliminate two problems at once.”

“You’re a cold son of a bitch, Cole.” The speaker sounded angry.

“That’s what Nikki pays me for. You remember that. The Russian doesn’t like turncoats. Neither do I.”

Rytova had heard all she needed to. She triggered the Uzi, laid down a heavy barrage into a patch of muzzle-flashes and then moved again. A groan of pain and surprise sounded in her headset, telling her that at least one of her shots had hit home.

A voice erupted in the headset. She recognized it as that of the man named Cole. “Wells. Wells. What the hell, man? You hit?”

Dead silence was the only reply.

Autofire pounded Rytova’s former position and moved in a horizontal swath until she found herself again hugging the moist ground, gritting her teeth as bullets burned the air overhead. Plant stalks, leaf fragments and wood splinters showered her as she waited out the onslaught. The odors of gunsmoke and rotting vegetation fouled the air.

As quickly as it began, the shooting stopped and Rytova guessed the man was reloading. A grenade launcher sounded from somewhere, and a cold torrent of fear washed over her. The fired object arced overhead and crashed to earth more than two dozen yards west of her. Boiling orange flame spilled over from the blast site, and razor wire tore through trees and plants. Heat and shock waves hammered Rytova and her surroundings, and she stayed still as the tempest wrenched the jungle.

Pulling herself to her feet, Rytova bolted and closed in on the edge of the surrounding jungle. Autofire resumed and rent the air around her. As bullets whittled away at her cover, she squeezed off short bursts from the Uzi and furiously sought a better position. The nearest and sturdiest barrier—a pile of stones about the size of a car—lay ten yards to her left.

To get there, she’d need to cross open land and expose herself as she sprinted. Under fire that heavy it might as well be two hundred yards.

Hurtling from the underbrush, the Uzi stammering out a thunderous cacophony of death, Rytova crossed the broad expanse of rich, red earth and closed in on safety. Another explosion—this one closer to Talisman’s home—sounded in the distance.

Autofire burned the air around her legs and torso and tore into the ground in front of her. Slugs passed inches from her right hip. She cut left, fear constricting her breath. Raising the Uzi, she opened up with the weapon. The chances of hitting her hidden attacker, while trying to dodge gunfire and run, were nearly nonexistent. But if she could get close enough to make the shooter dive for cover, it might buy her the seconds she needed to get behind the pile of stones.

The weapon went silent in her hands.

Empty.

She cursed herself for making another amateur mistake. Adrenaline coursing through her, heart slamming against her rib cage, she surged ahead.

Cover lay just a few feet ahead. She knew it’d take too damn long to reload the Uzi. Switching the machine pistol to her left hand, she began clawing for her side arm with her right hand. Only five feet to go.

The first bullet hit her square in the kidneys, spun her and knocked the breath from her lungs.

She tried to unleather her pistol and figure out why her back suddenly felt as though someone had crashed a truck into it. Two more shots pummeled her abdomen, her chest. She gasped for breath. Pain seemed to sear every cell of her body.

The beautiful Russian staggered forward, surrendering her overloaded body to sweet nothingness.

THRUSTING FORWARD with powerful leg muscles, Bolan vaulted for the door and set himself on a collision course with the guard blocking it. As he sliced through the air, the MP-5 churned through the contents of its magazine. Parabellum rounds pounded into the guard’s abdomen like punches from a prize fighter, hurling him back into the building.

Bolan passed through the doorway and hit the floor hard. Breath whooshed from his lungs as he skidded across the rotted wood planks. Splinters lanced into his forearms, shredding his sleeves, opening a dozen trails of wet crimson that dribbled down his skin.

Even as Bolan struck the floor, the grenade outside the house exploded. The warrior pulled himself into a ball, shielded his face with his bloodied forearms and rode out the blast. A mass of flame, debris and smoke forced its way through the door, and thunder threatened to split Bolan’s eardrums. Bits of mortar blew from between the concrete blocks making up the building. Outside, dirt and debris rained on the corrugated metal roof. When his breath returned to him, Bolan took in deep pulls of air and found it choked with grit. He hacked a few times, trying to clear the filth from his lungs.

The soldier had dropped the MP-5 during his tumble. As the explosion’s reverberations died and his senses returned, Bolan fisted the Desert Eagle and came to his feet. Staring down the pistol’s snout, he saw two doors to the right and one to the left. The end of the hallway opened into what appeared to be a large kitchen.

Glass shards from broken beer bottles, spent shell casings and smears of mud and dried blood littered the floor. A gas-powered generator rumbled somewhere in the distance, and the air reeked of stale beer and vomit.

Bolan processed the sounds like a human computer, his mind catching and identifying bits of information, looking for the one that might mean the difference between life and death.

Then it hit.

A grunt of exertion. The whisper of steel slicing through air.

Bolan folded at the knees, plummeting as though a trapdoor had opened beneath him. Metal sparked against concrete as an ax cut through the airspace above Bolan and then collided with a wall.

The Executioner spun and brought up the Desert Eagle. The big-bore pistol unleashed twin peals of thunder and a pair of .44 manglers tunneled at an upward angle into Bolan’s opponent, boring through his torso before exploding from his back in a bloody spray. The ax slid from the man’s grasp as he crumpled in a heap at Bolan’s feet.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Grabbing the ax as he hauled himself to his feet, the warrior turned and spotted a pair of gunners bearing down on him. Cocking his left arm, he thrust the ax forward in an overhead toss. Spiraling end over end as it flew through air, the weapon buried itself into the chest of one of the gunners. A blast from the Desert Eagle finished off the second attacker.

Retrieving the MP-5, Bolan slung the subgun and kept the Desert Eagle locked in his grip. He cleared the room to his left, found it filled with ragged furniture, plates of half-eaten rice and chicken, pornographic magazines and a few stray rounds of ammunition.

No Trevor Dade.

No Talisman.

He continued toward the kitchen, again encountering no resistance. Clearing another room, he began to wonder whether he’d been duped. As he returned to the hallway, a big shadow crossed his path and drove the butt of an AK-47 against his temple. Bolan jerked his head to the side, rolled with the impact and let the force push him back into the room he’d just exited. A vague impression of Talisman’s enraged face registered in Bolan’s mind as he found himself out of harm’s way.

A direct hit from the rifle butt would have been deadly, but even the glancing blow had caused his head and neck to hurt like hell. He felt as though his brain had been disconnected from his body, and he’d lost all sense of time and place. Gathering his senses, Bolan checked to make sure his assailant had retreated and took a moment to collect himself.

Multiple footsteps sounded in the hallway. With the Desert Eagle leading the way, Bolan moved into the main corridor, starting for the front door. A gunner stepped into the doorway as Bolan beat a path to it. The Desert Eagle exploded, hurling a pair of .44 slugs into the man. The soldier ejected the mostly spent clip and cracked a fresh one home as he ran.

Bolan crossed the killing field outside the house. Weaving his way through the mangled human remains littering the yard, he heard an engine roar to life and found himself bathed in the white glare of headlights. Engine growling, tires chewing through dirt and rocks, the vehicle bore straight down on Bolan.

The Desert Eagle cracked twice as the Executioner snapped off rounds at the charging vehicle’s front end. As he’d suspected during his initial recon, the vehicle—a Mercedes sedan—was armored and the shots ricocheted off the hood.

With lightning-fast reflexes, the soldier threw himself from the vehicle’s path, rolling and coming back up in a crouch. Staccato bursts of machine-gun fire flared from the passing vehicle’s gun ports as it raced past. Bolan watched ruby taillights shrink and eventually fade completely in the darkness.

Looking around, Bolan weighed his options. If Talisman had fled, he likely would have taken Dade with him. Dade was the only bargaining chip that the Sierra Leone tough guy had—if he had Dade at all. Bolan sensed there had been more than one person in the corridor when he’d been struck. But whether the scientist was among them remained to be seen.

Bolan took a quick inventory of the vehicles around him. He tried the doors on two of them and found them locked. On the third try, he hit a red Jeep Cherokee with the driver’s door unlocked and a key hanging in the ignition. Climbing in, he turned over the engine, slammed the vehicle into reverse and maneuvered it out from between its neighbors. Cutting the wheel left, he gunned the engine and the Jeep lurched forward.

Flipping on the headlights as he went, Bolan saw a silhouette stumble into view. The slender shadow stopped in the middle of the dirt path leading from the compound and shouted, “Stop.”

Walled in by trees and buildings, Bolan had two choices: comply or mow them down.

He had a moment to decide.

If it was one of Talisman’s men and he struck them, so be it. Such were the fortunes of war.

But if it was an innocent person…

The decision clear, the Executioner did the only thing he could.

Paris, France

ONE DAY EARLIER Mack Bolan had sat in the den of a Justice Department safehouse in Paris. Hal Brognola had paced the floor and ground an unlit cigar between his teeth with the vigor of a German shepherd gnawing on a rawhide bone.

Worry creased the older man’s features and weighed on his shoulders, causing them to slope, as he stayed silent, apparently gathering his thoughts. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and ran his fingers through his hair.

Bolan sipped tepid coffee that was sweet and fragrant. He grimaced. “Chocolate raspberry coffee? You going soft on me?”

Brognola jerked his head toward Bolan and gave him a confused look that slowly morphed into a smile.

“Hey, I don’t do the shopping,” Brognola said. “I just pay the bills.”

Bolan smiled. “Are you going sit and tell me why you called me here? Or just let me die a slow death from drinking this swill?”

Brognola crossed the room and seated himself at the table with Bolan. The Executioner was just winding up a two-day mission, cutting the heart from an extremist group that had planned to dispatch suicide bombers in major cities throughout the European Union for a synchronized terror campaign. The mission had been short and bloody, but Bolan had walked away unhurt.

Brognola, who’d been traveling in Europe on unrelated business, had asked his old friend to hang tight at the safehouse for an impromptu meeting to discuss an urgent problem. That had left Bolan with enough time for a shower, a meal and a few hours’ sleep. Brognola had declined to discuss the urgent matter via secure satellite telephone, insisting instead on a face-to-face meeting. The big Fed wasn’t given to panic, but his tension had touched Bolan like a tangible force. The Executioner had agreed to the meet, no questions asked.

Brognola pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Striker, what do you know about airborne laser fighters?”

Bolan shrugged. “We’ve got a handful of 747s fitted with lasers capable of shooting down enemy missiles. They fire at the fuel tank, weaken the metal until the pressure causes an outward explosion and downs the missile. It’s hardly a Death Star, but it seems like a step in the right direction.”

Brognola nodded. “The ABL program is a good one. Hell, I thought it was state-of-the-art. Turns out I was wrong.”

A dark look crossed Bolan’s hawkish features. “Explain,” he said.

“The ABL is already old technology,” Brognola replied. “We’re telling the world it’s the best we’ve got. But we’ve moved well beyond that and we have Trevor Dade to thank for it.”

“Trevor who?” Bolan asked.

“Trevor Dade. He’s a scientist. He’s missing.”

“Disappeared? You know I don’t do missing persons cases, Hal. Hire a detective.”

“Not disappeared, kidnapped and possibly murdered. And his loss could do irreparable damage to our national security.”

Bolan took another sip of the coffee. Brognola had his full attention. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

“You ever heard of the Nightwind program?”

Bolan shook his head.

“I hadn’t either until about twelve hours ago, shortly after Dade went missing.”

Bolan was growing impatient. “You’re being too mysterious, Hal. Get to the point.”

“Sorry, Striker. I’m still trying to digest this myself. The Nightwind is about the size and shape of a B-2 bomber, but it’s fitted with a solid-state laser system and some of the most advanced optics ever developed. No big vats of chemicals, no refraction from clouds and atmospheric disturbances. The lasers are more portable and more concentrated than anyone in the world—including our own allies—thinks that we have.”

“And Trevor Dade developed the technology,” Bolan concluded.

Brognola nodded. “The laser system, anyway. The whole project began during the cold war. We were so worried about the Soviets raining nuclear hell on us that the Pentagon and the White House decided it was best to create the ultimate missile killer, the Nightwind.”

“And they succeeded?”

“Pretty damn close,” Brognola said. “To the best of our knowledge, it’s the strongest, fastest thing we’ve got. They developed it in Nevada at a small base called the Haven. It’s kind of like Area 51 in its mystique.”

Bolan grinned. “But without the Martians.”

“It’s all very earthy stuff, I assure you,” Brognola said, smiling. “The whole place is geared toward the creation and testing of the Nightwind. It’s a top-tier R&D facility, but you won’t find any little green men getting autopsies.”

“So what do we know about Dade’s disappearance?” Bolan asked.

Brognola took a deep breath and exhaled. “He works for Sentinel Industries, one of the nation’s biggest defense contractors. Guy’s a genius when it comes to turning lasers into weapons, but he was a security disaster waiting to happen. The Man briefed me earlier today, and what he said wasn’t encouraging. Dade snorts coke by the ton and buys hookers by the baker’s dozen. In his free time, he gambles like hell.”

Bolan’s brow furrowed. “He got any big debts from it?”

Brognola shook his head. “Dade comes from one of the richest oil families in Texas. He doesn’t care about money. It’s all in the thrill. We’re still running the traps on him, but we’re starting to hear some murmurs of possible ties to organized crime.”

Bolan felt anger burn hot under his skin. Instinct and experience told him this situation should never have escalated to this level. “His handlers knew all this, but he kept his security clearance. That’s bull, Hal.”

Bolan knew by Brognola’s scowl that the big Fed agreed. “Like I said, Striker, the guy comes from a lot of money. He gets into trouble, he gets bailed out. The people at Sentinel have tried to fire him twice. He has two uncles who are senators, one chairs the intelligence committee, the other the defense appropriations committee. Any time the company leans on Dade, he calls his uncles and they drop the hammer on the company. At least that was the pattern. Recently Dade screwed up so bad that not even his high-powered uncles had enough chits to save him.”

“What happened?”

“He makes weekly pilgrimages to Las Vegas. While he’s there, he stays in a top-notch hotel and parties. A preliminary audit of the company’s books shows he did at least some of it with Sentinel’s money. Money out of the Nightwind program funds.”

“Which means he did it with taxpayer cash,” Bolan said.

Brognola shrugged and shot Bolan a cynical smile. “We’ve used the money in worse ways. Anyway, about two months ago, he’s there for another wild weekend and bam!” Brognola slammed the table with his open palm for emphasis. “One of the hookers overdoses on cocaine and dies. Dade panics, refuses to let the guards call the police. When he finally relents, he gets busted for obstruction, possession and involuntary manslaughter. Within weeks, a grand jury indicts him and the press is off to the races with the story.”

“And,” Bolan said, “because it’s the local prosecutor and not one from Dade’s home state, the authorities plan to make it stick.”

Picking up his foam cup of coffee, Brognola nodded and leaned back in his chair. Staring into the cup, he swirled its contents and resumed speaking. “You bet they plan to make it stick. A couple of days later, one of his uncles calls the prosecutor, hat in hand, and asks him to reduce the charges. Maybe even consider dropping them. The senator told him the damage to national security and the state’s economy would far outweigh the benefits. The prosecutor told him to take his good old boy politics and shove ’em.”

It was Bolan’s turn to smile. “Good for him.”

“My thoughts exactly. And with a criminal investigation brewing, Sentinel’s board of directors finally stopped sitting on its hands and began taking steps to fire the bastard. That was about a week ago.”

“And now he’s gone. One hell of a coincidence,” Bolan replied.

“No coincidence. Whoever took Dade wanted to make it look like a hit rather than a kidnapping. They burned what appears to be his corpse and that of a woman who was in the house when the hit took place. Police identified her with dental records. She was a hooker from Las Vegas.”

“What about the man?”

Brognola shrugged. “His head was destroyed with a close-range shotgun blast, so we have no dental records. DNA samples taken from cigarette butts indicate Dade had been in the room. But DNA taken from the man’s corpse didn’t match up.”

“So it was a plant,” Bolan stated.

“Right. Whoever did it had to know we’d identify the guy as a ringer in short order. But it did buy them enough time for the trail to go cold.”

“Does Dade’s family know?” Bolan asked.

“Negative. We’re not telling them or the media yet. It helps our cause for whoever did this to think we bought into the ruse.”

“What else do we know?”

Brognola let out a big sigh and vigorously rubbed his eyes with balled fists. The man was notorious for depriving himself of sleep, and his red, watery eyes indicated that was the case this day.

“We’re getting leads from all over, Striker, but the biggest noise seems to be coming from Sierra Leone. Using tail numbers, flight records and eyewitness reports, we tracked a private plane that left Oregon several hours after the kidnapping and high-tailed it to Mexico. The crew apparently ditched the plane there and took another flight to Colombia, where they switched over to Soviet military surplus cargo planes. A couple of DEA informants there saw the whole thing. We found one of the planes in Sierra Leone several hours ago.”

“How do you know Dade was on the flight?”

“A forensics team scoured the thing from stem to stern. We found some of Dade’s hair on the craft. So he, or at least his body, was on the plane at some point,” Brognola replied.

“I assume the Stony Man cyberteam nailed down the plane’s owner.”

“They did,” Brognola said. Rising from his chair, he retrieved a battered leather valise, opened it and rummaged inside for a moment. Extracting a folder from the bag, he made his way to Bolan and fanned through the contents as he went. Setting a photograph in front of the man, Brognola gave him time to study it while he returned to his own seat.

Scanning the photo, Bolan saw a black man with a shaved head and soulless eyes. The man wore jeans and a tattered camouflage shirt, and carried an AK-47 and a battered hand ax. Bolan committed the image to memory.

Brognola withdrew a sheet of paper from the folder and began reciting its contents. “His name is David Sheffield. He’s the son of a British university professor and a Sierra Leonean woman who met back in the 1960s before the country got its independence from the British. Dad split for England in the 1970s, leaving his son and wife to fend for themselves. As a teenager, Sheffield joined the army and actually turned out to be a decent soldier. Then in 1991, he deserted the state’s army and joined the Revolutionary United Front, figuring the long-term payout was better. Like most of those guys, he took on a new name—Talisman.”

“I guess the names killer and rapist already were taken,” Bolan added sarcastically.

“Right. He’s a real sweetie. Recently, he’s distanced himself from the rebel movement but continues to deal in diamonds, guns and fuel. I guess he thinks that makes him a businessman instead of a killer.”

“I don’t know, Hal,” Bolan said. “The evidence is there, but this just makes no damn sense.”

Brognola set down the dossier and nodded. “Agreed. In and of itself the operation is just too big for Talisman to handle. The guy is strictly small-time. Like you said, terrorizing women and children is more his speed. But the facts don’t lie.”

“Maybe Talisman’s working with someone else,” Bolan suggested.

“That’s the working theory. We just have no idea who.”

Bolan took one last nip at the coffee, wrinkled his face and pushed the cup away. “I take it Aaron and the team are trying to fill in the gaps?” Aaron Kurtzman was the computer wizard who fronted the Farm’s cyberteam.

“Right. They’re working overtime,” Brognola said. “Talisman does business with a lot of unsavory characters, so there’s dozens of leads to track down. Barbara is riding herd on the cybercrew, so you know we’ll get some results.”

An image of the honey-blond mission controller filled Bolan’s head and a warmth passed through his body. He knew the woman as a fellow warrior and a lover. Barbara Price was a consummate professional, and one hell of a woman. Bolan trusted her.

“Yeah, she’ll get results,” he said.

Brognola continued. “Whether Dade is a willing participant or an innocent victim matters little to us, Striker. All we care about is getting him back. If the wrong country gets hold of him, it could jeopardize all the work we’ve put into the Nightwind program. It could set us back a decade or more.”

Bolan pondered the big Fed’s words for a moment.

“How soon can you get me to Sierra Leone?” the Executioner asked.

2

Freetown, Sierra Leone

Bolan stomped the brake pedal as the figure staggered into the Jeep’s path. The car jerked to a stop, the force pushing Bolan forward. The safety harness cut into his shoulder, and he steeled himself by gripping the steering wheel and locking his arms straight. The headlights doused the figure in a white glow, and Bolan saw it was a woman. Crimson eclipsed part of her face. With her right hand, she held her left ribs, which were encased in a Kevlar vest.

She gripped a pistol in her left hand.

The hand hung at her side in plain view, not threatening Bolan. A second pistol was holstered on the hip opposite an empty holster. She staggered slowly toward the Jeep, wincing with each step.

What the hell? Bolan shifted the Jeep into Park, reached for the butt of the Desert Eagle, then opened the Jeep door. Setting one foot on the ground, he kept as much of his body as possible inside the vehicle. Jabbing the Desert Eagle through the space between the door and the frame, he drew down on the woman.

“Drop the gun,” he said, “and raise your hands.”

The woman shot Bolan an angry look and spoke through gritted teeth. “We’re losing Talisman,” she said. “We don’t have time for this.”

Bolan heard a hint of an accent and identified it as Russian. It was soft, almost like a fading echo, as though she’d trained very hard to lose it. He could guess at her country of origin. Great. But what did she want with Talisman?

“Lady, either you drop that gun and identify yourself, or I guarantee Talisman will be the least of your worries.”

The woman gave him a hard stare, but dropped her pistol in the dirt.

“My name is Natasha Rytova,” she said. “I’m Russian intelligence. I can tell by your voice that you’re American. Let’s go.”

“SVR?” Bolan asked, referring to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.

“Yes, yes. SVR. Of course. Can we go? We might lose them.”

Bolan’s mind raced as he weighed the situation. The woman was right. The longer they stood sparring, the better the chances Talisman—Bolan’s best lead to finding the missing scientist—would slip through his fingers.

The fact was that if she hadn’t stumbled directly into the SUV’s path, he probably would have blown right past her. She could be lying, ready to hit Bolan when he least expected it. But she could be telling the truth, a prospect Bolan found equally disturbing. He wanted to know why Russia cared enough about either Talisman or Dade to send in an operative. If that country’s intervention was about Dade, the implications were even more chilling.

Bolan figured it was in his best interest to keep the woman in his sights.

But he’d do it under his terms.

“Lose the guns,” he said.

“And leave myself defenseless? Go to hell.” The woman was defiant.

“I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you. You stopped me. You’re injured. Drop the guns and I’ll help. Otherwise, I’ll hop back into this vehicle, get the hell out of here and leave you to fend for yourself.”

Rytova wiped some of the blood from her head, studied it for a moment and seemed to consider Bolan’s words.

Tentatively, she unbuckled the pistol belt, letting it slide down her hips and legs until it landed around her feet. She raised her hands and shot Bolan an irritated look. “Now may we go?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Bolan said.

Climbing into the Jeep, he held the Desert Eagle in his left hand and rested his opposite hand on the gearshift as he waited for Rytova to climb into the vehicle. He’d watched her to make sure she didn’t retrieve any of her weapons along the way.

She grimaced as she climbed inside the vehicle.

Bolan shifted and navigated out of the compound. Moments later, the vehicle was racing down one of the main roads into the middle of Freetown.

“You okay?” he asked.

The woman stared ahead. “Someone shot me in the ribs, stomach and kidneys. My vest stopped the bullets, but it hurts to breathe. Another bullet grazed my head.”

“Who shot you?” Bolan asked.

The woman shrugged and immediately winced in pain.

“I’m not sure. Some men I have not met before. I believe the shooter’s name was Cole. He wasn’t one of Talisman’s people.”

“You know most of Talisman’s men?” Bolan was intrigued.

She nodded. “I’ve been watching him for days. But these were not his men. He’s a strong warrior, but his people are unskilled thugs, little boys playing soldier. The men I encountered were professionals. They work for Talisman’s boss.”

“And that would be?”

“None of your business,” she stated.

“Look lady…” he began.

She turned and glared at Bolan. He could tell the effort cost her physically.

“No, you look,” she said. “I have no guns. I don’t know your name. My information is the only leverage I have.”

Bolan clenched and unclenched his jaws. He scanned the road and guided the vehicle into a sharp turn. He heard the tires squeal, felt a slight slip in the back end as the Jeep cornered. Navigating the vehicle back into a straightaway, he mulled the woman’s words and admitted she had a good point.

“When all this is over, you and I are going to have a talk,” he said. “A very long talk.”

“I do not fear you.”

Hell of it was, Bolan could tell she meant it.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Cooper,” Bolan said, drawing upon an alias. “Matt Cooper.”

The woman fixed her gaze through the windshield, nodding and absently rubbing her ribs as she did. “You’re American. Are you CIA?”

Bolan shook his head. “Justice Department.”

“Interesting. Why does the American Justice Department care about a small-time hood like Talisman?” she asked.

“To quote someone, none of your business,” Bolan replied.

Rytova’s mouth twisted into a frown. If she had a reply, she kept it to herself. Bolan used the dead air time to check out his surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of Talisman.

He reached into a pocket of his combat suit, grabbing a pressure bandage and some packaged alcohol pads. He tossed them into the woman’s lap.

“Here,” he said, staring straight ahead. “These might help.”

“Thank you.”

From his peripheral vision, he saw the woman pull down the lighted sun visor and stare at her reflection as she used the pads to wipe away the blood. She winced when the alcohol seeped into the open wound.

“Your vest is matted with blood,” Bolan said. “Did you lose a lot?”

The woman continued studying her head wound in the mirror, touching it gingerly with the fingers of her right hand.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “But I do feel a little woozy.”

“You going to pass out on me?” Bolan glanced at her.

She gave him an angry look. “I didn’t come this far to quit. I’m not some frail thing who faints at the sight of blood. Can we concentrate on finding Talisman instead of my damn head wound?”

“Sure,” Bolan said.

The Jeep hurtled ahead, occasionally shuddering as it rolled into an occasional pothole. Bolan passed the burned-out remains of a stately building with columns and domes—left over, he guessed, from Sierra Leone’s colonial days—past several smaller buildings and storefronts. Bolan saw occasional clusters of people, the women clothed in colorful dresses, the men in ragged western clothes.

Talisman had gained at least a three-minute lead. That was enough time to disappear into one of the alleys or side roads threading off the main route that led from his compound into Freetown. Or perhaps he’d found refuge in an old warehouse or garage.

Bolan also knew three minutes gave Talisman ample time to call ahead and set up an ambush. The Executioner accepted the risk. Without a doubt, the play had been fraught with danger from the beginning, and he was in too deep to shrink from the challenge.

Glancing into his rearview mirror, Bolan noticed headlights approaching. They began as pinpricks of white interrupting a black background, but swelled in size as they bore down on the Jeep quickly. As the headlights neared the vehicle, they split apart and low rumbles sounded as a pair of motorcycles drove around either side of the Jeep. Both bikers wore black leather jackets and black helmets with clear face shields.

Flashes erupted from either side of the Jeep as the riders caught up with the Jeep and triggered their submachine guns. Bullets drummed hard against reinforced steel as the shooters sprayed the vehicle with autofire.

Bolan glimpsed an approaching biker in his side view mirror and saw the guy fire a burst at the tires with little effect. He guessed that either the man had missed or the tires had been outfitted with special inserts to keep them rolling if punctured.

The other biker came even with the passenger side of the Jeep and loosed a burst of autofire. Bullets collided with bulletproof glass, causing Rytova to flinch and push herself deeper into the seat as she tried to make herself a smaller target.

Trusting his gut, Bolan reached into his shoulder holster, drew the Beretta and handed it butt-first to Rytova. The Russian gave him an uncertain look, then took the weapon. If he’d made a mistake, he’d know soon enough and he’d pay for it with his life.

“Hang on,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Cutting the wheel sharply to the left, he nearly swiped the rider closer to him. The shooter veered into an oncoming lane, firing his submachine gun until it went dry. Bullets sparked and whined off Bolan’s door. With precise movements, the biker let that gun fall limp on its strap, scooped up a second SMG and continued to fire on the Jeep.

Bolan grimly considered the small knots of African men and women standing on the sidelines. A few ran for cover, but others remained rooted where they stood, unable to turn and run away as the deadly tableau unfolded before them. Years of bloody warfare and abuse had left them too shell-shocked to save themselves.

Bolan had blood on his hands this night, but he’d be damned if he’d add innocent blood to the mix.

He mashed the accelerator, drawing more speed from the Jeep’s power pack. He wanted distance from the crowded street, a place where he could reduce the risk to innocent civilians.

As the soldier looked for a side street or an alley, he assessed the situation. Small-arms fire wouldn’t cripple the hulking SUV. So, despite their nimbleness and firepower, the bikers had little chance of stopping Bolan. The armored undercarriage would offer at least some protection against a hand grenade or land mine. The hell of it was, if Bolan knew it, so did they. He assumed they had something much more devastating planned for him.

Two more motorcycles, engines whining, appeared from the darkness and joined in the pursuit. Muzzle-flashes erupted around the Jeep and bullets thudded against the windshield, hood and grille. Bolan didn’t dare return fire, not while even a single innocent life hung in the balance.

But that didn’t mean he was helpless.

Cutting the wheel left, Bolan gunned the engine and again swiped at the motorcycle to his left. The shooter ceased fire, let the SMG fall from his grip and grabbed the handlebars with both hands. The bike engine roared, momentarily drowning out the gunfire, as the rider tried to gain some speed and clear himself from the path of Bolan’s vehicle.

The biker never had a chance.

The Jeep plowed over man and machine, causing the SUV to jerk side-to-side, as though crossing over a speed bump. The three remaining bikers fell back and regrouped. Engines thundering, they formed a triangle and roared toward the SUV as Bolan guided it into a nearby alley.

Chattering weapons, squealing tires and roaring engines assaulted Bolan’s senses as he guided the SUV through the urban canyon. Coaxing more speed from his vehicle, he locked the steering wheel in a death grip and continued on.

“What the hell do you call this?” Rytova asked.

“I call it improvisation,” Bolan replied.

A slight drift to the right and the side-view mirror scraped brick, eliciting a quick shower of sparks. Bolan corrected before the impact sheared the mirror completely from the passenger door.

“You’re insane,” Rytova said.

Bolan didn’t argue the point. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw the lead motorbike break away from the pack and close in on the Jeep’s tail end. The vehicle shot from the alley and into a cross street. The impact jolted Bolan, and he fought to steady the rocking vehicle as it raced over broken roadways. He heard tires screech and saw headlights as he interrupted traffic flow and caused cars to jerk to a stop on either side of him. He aimed the vehicle into the mouth of the next alley and drove in with the motorcycles following close behind.

Gunshots continued hammering the vehicle. A scrape followed by a loud crack to Bolan’s left gripped his attention. The driver’s side mirror had struck the brick wall. He watched as it tore free and disappeared from sight.

The Jeep again broke free from the alley and rolled into another cross street. Ahead lay a row of burned-out buildings—drooping heaps of exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.

Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.

The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.

The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the windshield and hood. Gunsmoke swirled in Bolan’s face, stung his eyes.

The night burst into thunder and flames as a round from Bolan’s subgun ignited one of the motorcycles’ fuel tanks, the resulting blaze immolating the driver in a spontaneous funeral pyre.

Bolan’s peripheral gaze caught another of his original pursuers bearing down on the Jeep. Before he could react, Rytova unloaded a 3-shot burst from the Beretta. The Parabellum rounds pounded into the man’s chest, and his dead fingers simultaneously released the SMG and the handlebars. The rider fell backward from his two-wheeler while momentum carried the bike onward until it collided with a wall.

The soldier took down two more bikers with the MP-5 before it locked dry. In the same instant, Rytova’s weapon ran empty. Bolan extracted two more 20-round magazines for the Beretta and tossed them to Rytova. He reloaded his own weapon. Just as he prepared to resume fire, the remaining attackers turned nearly in unison and fled.

Bolan and Rytova shared confused looks.

“They ran?” Rytova asked.

A sinking feeling told Bolan otherwise.

“More like a strategic retreat,” he said. “That can only mean something bad for us.”

The beating of helicopter blades in the distance told the Executioner he was right.

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