Terrorist Dispatch. Don Pendleton

      

      CRIMEAN DEADLOCK

      Ukrainian militants are the initial suspects in a terrorist attack on Washington, DC, until rumors surface suggesting Moscow was behind the bombing. But the investigation only raises more questions. Was the attack an attempt to mute US criticism of Russia, or a call to action to help suppress Ukrainian dissidents? Only one man can solve the riddle and mete out appropriate punishment: Mack Bolan.

      From Manhattan’s Little Ukraine to the war-torn country itself, Bolan blazes a path of truth and justice to neutralize the threat...and prevent another slaughter on American soil even as the danger increases with enemies and allies emerging on both sides of the Crimean conflict. But the Executioner is no middleman; he has his own war to fight, and he won’t stop until his opponents are ashes.

      Brusilov made it easy for him by trying to escape in the cruiser.

      Bolan’s sniper’s mind ticked off the necessary calculations in a heartbeat: range, velocity, the distance he would have to lead his target for a hit.

      He took a breath, released half of it, held the rest. His index finger curled around the Remington’s trigger, eased it back until he felt it break, then rode the recoil, eye glued to the reticle.

      Downrange, a burst of scarlet splashed over the cruiser’s dashboard. Without a seat belt to restrain him, Brusilov slumped to the right and out of Bolan’s view.

      Bolan didn’t stick around to see what happened when the cops arrived. He had removed the viper’s head, and while it would inevitably sprout a new one, that was not his concern this night.

      The Executioner had another hand to play in the East Village, and he was already running late.

      Terrorist Dispatch

      The Executioner_® Don Pendleton

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      There is no place in a fanatic’s head where reason can enter.

      —Napoleon I, Maxims

      I reason with fanatics in the only language they understand.

      —Mack Bolan

      Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

      But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

      Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

      He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

      So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

      But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

      Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

      Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       Introduction

       Title Page

       Quote

       Legend

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

       Epilogue

       Copyright

       Prologue

      Lincoln Memorial, National Mall, Washington, DC

      The choice was obvious, when Oleg Banakh thought about it. Six million tourists viewed the shrine each year, according to the pamphlet he had studied while preparing for his final day on Earth. That averaged out to—what? Well over sixteen thousand visiting on any given day, year-round.

      He had to kill only a fraction of that number to secure his place in history.

      The homemade vest that Banakh wore beneath his thrift-shop raincoat made his neck and shoulders cramp, but it was fleeting, temporary pain. Each of its six hand-stitched pockets contained five pounds of C-4 plastic explosive, bristling with old rusty nails, screws, nuts and bolts added to serve as shrapnel. A nine-volt battery hung between