Crucial Intercept. Don Pendleton

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      The North Koreans were holding Baldero within the building—if the cryptographer was still alive

      From his vantage point in a line of cars parked on the street, the Executioner considered the problem. Any attempt to raid the building would cause the North Koreans to either flee or, worse, kill Baldero and cut their losses before they escaped. That could not be permitted. A surgical strike was called for—and the time for action had arrived.

      Bolan made sure his weapons were secure in their holsters and that he carried a full complement of spare magazines, drawing from the last of the stores in his war bag. Then he screwed the custom-built suppressor to the threaded barrel of his Beretta 93-R, held the pistol low against his leg and walked up to the front of the curio shop.

      Knowing that at any moment, a shotgun blast could chop him in half at the waist, Bolan took a step back and planted a combat-booted foot on the wooden door. It splintered and slammed inward, reverberating off the wall inside.

      Bolan dived into the room.

      Rescue was coming—and with it, hell.

      Crucial Intercept

      The Executioner^®

      Don Pendleton

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.

      —Friedrich Nietzsche

      1844–1900

      Terrorism will not be tolerated in the suburban backyards and city streets of America—not on my watch. I will attack from all sides, from every angle, until the enemies inevitably turn their guns on each other.

      —Mack Bolan

      THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Contents

      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

      Epilogue

      1

      Mack Bolan pulled the Crown Victoria sedan into the only free slot among the convenience store’s gas pumps, jockeying for position among the other drivers already fueling up. The man still known to some as the Executioner was just outside Williamsburg, Virginia, having spent the past several hours burning up state highways. The Crown Victoria, an FOUO—for official use only—vehicle on loan from a CIA motor pool, was a “plainclothes” interceptor model. Its big up-rated 250 horsepower V8 engine drove seventeen-inch stamped steel wheels wearing 235/55/17 high-performance rubber, all of it held together by a heavy-duty suspension and frame. The powerful car had served Bolan well, bearing him swiftly from Langley to Charlottesville, then to Lynchburg, and finally to Richmond, where he’d received the call from the Farm that sent him tearing up the road to Williamsburg.

      Bolan snapped open his secure satellite phone and dialed the number that would, through a circuitous and redundantly encrypted route, connect him with Stony Man Farm in Virginia. The nerve center for the Sensitive Operations Group, a covert arm of the United States Justice Department, had been the scene of furious activity overnight.

      Bolan had gotten no more sleep than had the cyber team at the Farm, for while they traced his location, coordinated with local law enforcement, and fed new destinations to the Executioner, he had pushed the Crown Victoria to reach each and every one of the target zones. Each time, they had been one step behind their quarry. The soldier understood from long experience that sometimes you had to hurry up and wait. There was little he could do but chase down the leads passed on to him by the Farm. Eventually, his path would intercept those of the person or persons he sought, likely with violent results.

      He would see to that.

      The first urgent contact from the Farm had come just before midnight. Bolan had been staying in a motel near Langley, taking some long-overdue down time to rest after his latest debriefing trip to Wonderland and a meet with Hal Brognola. While he maintained an arm’s length relationship with the United States government’s covert counterterrorism network, Brognola transcended any bureaucratic boundaries or barriers. He liked to keep the big Fed informed of what he learned, each and every time he stepped onto the latest battlefield in his endless war against terror and injustice. The cyber team at the Farm could use the intel to update—or close—files on various threats.

      The call alone, when it woke him, would have been enough to leave him instantly alert—but the words of Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, had left no doubt.

      “Striker,” Price had said, using the Farm’s code name for the Executioner, “somebody’s shooting up Virginia.”

      Bolan had switched on the large color television, after finding the oversized motel remote on top of the set. Predictably, every one of the cable news channels and at least two local Virginia television stations were all over the story. A series of high-profile shootings, committed by groups of men wielding automatic weapons, had torn up several public locations in Charlottesville. The first, in the early evening, had ripped apart an Internet café just off the campus of the University of Virginia, which had sparked fears of another Virginia Tech–style massacre. Nobody had been killed, but significant damage to the facility had been done.

      Less than an hour after the computer lab shooting, another one-sided gun battle had shot up a public Laundromat in downtown Charlottesville. Then, an hour and a half after that, a convenience store on the outskirts of the city had taken a broadside from what one witness described as “four Chinese men with Uzis.” This was the worst of the incidents, to that point; a clerk working behind