Fatal Prescription. Don Pendleton

      

      Deadly Plague

      There seems to be little connection between the viral devastation of a small, African village and the massacre at a drug research facility in Belgium... But Mack Bolan has learned the hard way that appearances can be deceiving. In fact, a wealthy industrialist is about to expand the release of a highly contagious virus out of Africa and into the States, and use the “miracle” antidote as his ticket to the U.S. presidency. It’s up to the Executioner to take down the villain’s mysterious assassin and stop the pending epidemic...

      “The security man was shot in the face,” Inspector Dorao said, pointing to the blood congealing on the desk.

      He held his forefinger to the spot between his eyebrows.

      “We found an ejected shell casing from a 9 mm about three meters away.”

      Right between the eyes, Bolan thought. Whoever did this had good marksmanship.

      Dorao motioned them forward and they moved through the security gates, the alarms going off as each of them went through. Dorao’s eyebrows lifted as he regarded Bolan and Grimaldi.

      “May I assume that you have special permission to carry concealed weapons?”

      “We came right here from another assignment,” Bolan said. “There was concern that this might be the first of several attacks.”

      Dorao shook his head. “Let us hope not. But your weapons are of little importance to me at this point.” He gestured toward the elevators. “There were two bodies in the elevator. Others in the security office. Come. I will show you the rest. Upstairs. Be warned. It is not pretty.”

      Fatal Prescription

      Don Pendleton

      Man’s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself.

      —Lao Tzu

      I make myself the enemy of those who would victimize their fellow humans. As long as people continue to kill each other, I will not lay down my weapons.

      —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

       Quotes

       The Mack Bolan Legend

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Epilogue

       Copyright

       1

      Stevenson Dynamics

      Fairfax County, Arlington, Virginia

      William J. Stevenson sat in the padded leather chair holding a remote in his right hand. He leaned forward on the large mahogany table, rested his elbows on the polished surface and clicked on the television.

      Stevenson was in his mid-fifties with a well-trimmed Vandyke, chiseled cheekbones and a tall, powerful-looking body. His face was perfectly tanned and his dark brown hair was coiffed to perfection.

      A glass sat on a coaster in front of him and a heavyset, balding man with glasses sat to his left. To Stevenson’s right, a thin, younger man in a light blue suit stood nervously rubbing his jaw, as they all watched the prototype for the commercial begin to play.

      Two attractive women, dressed in typical soccer-mom attire, escorted a group of children through a CGI image of an idyllic, green pasture. The women smiled with bright, ultra-white teeth and conversed in inaudible sentences as the announcer’s mellifluous voice-over listed the benefits of taking Pacifica 7, “the surest safeguard against