Plains Of Fire. Don Pendleton

slush that used to be their lungs and expired, as well.

      By evening, thirteen hundred corpses were being shoveled into the bottom of a grave dug up by bulldozers. The World Health Organization resources sent to respond to an unprecedented outbreak of a new form of Ebola arrived just in time to see all but a handful of bodies turned to ash by concentrated streams of burning gasoline.

      It was a preview of hell, Tanya Marshall thought. She took pictures of the carnage, documenting the destruction of the infected victim bodies in the pit.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Alexandria, Egypt

      The three men moved quietly across the Egyptian docks, night enveloping them in a cloak of darkness that aided their stealthy approach. Rumor and gossip had brought the trio to this outlet on the Mediterranean Sea, clad in combat blacksuits and armed to the teeth.

      When Mack Bolan contacted Stony Man Farm for help, the men of Phoenix Force usually stepped forward. But in this case only Rafael Encizo and Calvin James answered the call. David McCarter, Gary Manning and T. J. Hawkins had sustained various gunshot wounds, pulled muscles and ankle fractures that kept them anchored in the Blue Ridge Mountain headquarters.

      James and Encizo had lost sight of Bolan, but they had no worries about the man known as the Executioner. Though more than six feet tall and carrying two hundred pounds of lean, well-honed muscle, Bolan was one of the stealthiest human beings on the planet. Moving with the sure-footed stride of a stalking panther, the Executioner was the embodiment of a ghost, flitting between shadows in the blink of an eye while creating no more sound than an errant breeze.

      This night’s probe was tracing a cache of Cold War–era biological delivery systems—germ warfare shells—to Alexandria. The shells were being delivered by the Russian mafiya, and all indications from Bolan’s investigation led him to believe that they were earmarked for use in the Darfur ethnic cleansing sessions. Bolan had been intending to make his presence known in the region, to bring down the horde of madmen who engaged in wanton murder and almost ritualistic rape to destroy the non-Muslim population sharing western Sudan. The State Department across multiple presidential administrations had been handicapped by a desire not to offend Islamic governments by interfering with the Sudanese government.

      Mack Bolan, however, wasn’t a tool of U.S. international policy. He was driven by the need to protect the victims of corruption and terrorism. Husbands, fathers, brothers and sons were executed brutally, while wives, mothers, sisters and daughters were raped and mutilated by the Janjaweed forces. The Darfur crisis, and the Rwandan slaughter a decade before, were symptomatic of an international apathy in regard to Africa. The jungles and deserts of the continent, once Colonial prizes of the European governments, were considered lost causes, a realm where white people had no business interfering. Bolan’s brow furrowed at the thought.

      Skin color didn’t enter into the Executioner’s equations of justice. What did come to mind was the fact that Europeans had run roughshod across Africa, creating a powder keg. After stripping whatever resources they could, they left disenfranchised millions behind without a workable governmental infrastructure. The jackals who did move in took their lesson plans from their predecessors and fostered a culture of corruption and tribal retribution that helped them keep their wallets fat and their enemies cowering in fear. As long as ancient tribal feuds raged, no one would be able to accumulate enough power to unseat their corrupt rulership.

      It would require an outside force to even the odds, and the Executioner and his allies were that outside interference. The fact that the Thunder Lions were the militia acquiring the lethal weapon systems put the Darfur crisis right at the top of Bolan’s priorities.

      Mack Bolan was just one man and he did what he could. And when he set his mind to a task, few things could deter him. However, a sentry on patrol was about to notice that his partners, Encizo and James, were preparing to slip into the water from the end of the dock. The guard was a hardened warrior, moving with precision, his mind focused on systematic scanning of the pier. It would only be a matter of moments before he saw the Phoenix pair as they took to the water on their mission of sabotage.

      Bolan stalked the Russian ex-special forces man walking patrol. He recognized the man’s Spetznaz pedigree, having encountered hundreds of them before. His disciplined military bearing, Slavic features and the scent of cheap Turkish tobacco that the Russian commandos seemed addicted to were unmistakable in combination. Add in the fact that the black-market weapons were on a Russian ship, owned by the mafiya, and it was plain to Bolan that the man was a trained commando. The muzzle of his rifle was held at waist level, finger off the trigger, but resting against the guard, ready to snap down and rip off a burst of autofire with a reflexive action.

      The Executioner knew that it would only be a moment before the ex-military mob enforcer noticed the presence of his partners, or feel that Bolan was on his trail. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Executioner rose from the shadows. One of his hands clamped over the Russian’s mouth, while the other speared a hard-knuckled fist deep into the base of his adversary’s skull. The punch connected with the knot of neurons where the spine met the brain, causing an overload that paralyzed the patrolling sentry. With a savage jerk, Bolan yanked his insensate opponent back into the shadows, his arm snaking under the stunned Russian’s chin. He flexed both of his arms, and with the power of a full-grown python, he broke the unconscious man’s neck. The moment the sentry would have recovered a fraction of his senses, he would have mustered the strength to pull the trigger on his rifle, alerting the rest of his allies. Given that the guard was ex-military and working for organized crime, Bolan could live with the fact that he most likely had sent a murderer to justice.

      A quick glance around the dock told him that the rest of the Russians on the outlaw freighter hadn’t noticed their guard disappear. Moving swiftly, Bolan peeled the corpse out of its jacket, then the red-and-white-striped sailor shirt, pulling them both on. He’d used a small utility knife to cut slashes in the side of the dead man’s T-shirt to allow himself access to his battle harness and shoulder-holstered Beretta, while still concealing his blacksuit and war load from casual inspection. He tucked the Russian’s cell phone and hand radio into his jacket pocket.

      “Took out the snooper, continuing his patrol pattern,” Bolan said softly into his throat mike as he stepped out onto the dock.

      There was the sound of two clicks, Encizo and James responding nonverbally to his transmission. The two men were underwater now and wouldn’t have seen Bolan take down the sentry and appropriate his clothing. They pressed the transmit buttons on their radios, the only way they could communicate with him while just below the waves, breathing through snorkels. Secure in the knowledge that his allies wouldn’t mistakenly target him, Bolan followed the guard’s regularly scheduled route.

      “Guys,” a voice called over the radio in Russian. “Pull back in. We have the headlight signal.”

      “Affirmative,” Bolan grunted in Russian, keeping his voice low. The Executioner made an about-face and returned to the freighter. Riflemen were posted on the railing, but their attention was on the burning pairs of headlights rolling down the back streets. In the shadowy light of the dock, neither of the sentries would have been able to see each other, which was an advantage. The men on the pier would be hard to target by any incoming force. The lack of light was no disadvantage to a Spetznaz commando.

      Bolan could see the shadowy outline of the other Russian who had been patrolling the pier. He bracketed the other side of the gangplank, his eyes fixed on the newcomers.

      “Anatoly,” the man whispered, “I heard that the stupid bastards used some of our shells last night.”

      Bolan shrugged.

      “I don’t like it,” the guard continued. “If we get caught with the rest of their shipment in our hold, we’ll bring down a shit storm.”

      Bolan nodded.

      The Thunder Lion convoy rolled to a halt, its headlights off. Bolan counted six vehicles, four of them SUVs, two of them two-and-a-half-ton trucks, which were workhorses and more than capable of carting off enough bioartillery to render Central Africa