Insurrection. Don Pendleton

      

      MURDER DOCTRINE

      A jihadist bomb brings down a massive church in Ibadan, and injured Catholic bishops flee the sanctuary-turned-death-trap...straight into the machetes of Nigeria’s most fearsome terrorist group, Boko Haram. This bloodbath is only the beginning of a reign of terror linked to al Qaeda. As the gloating leader amps up the massacres of Christians across the country, Mack Bolan sets out to hunt him down and smash al Qaeda’s hopes of building another major African power base.

      Yet the moment Bolan hits Nigerian soil, his identity is compromised. His only allies have little training, and their priority is protecting children orphaned by the terrorists’ brutal attacks. Now survival means fighting his way through the crowded city, ambush by lethal ambush, and staying one step ahead of a traitor moving in for the kill. With the death toll rising, the Executioner will have to play one last gamble to restore the region’s rightful government—and send this unholy gang of jihadists into fiery oblivion.

      Bolan had to protect Paul and Jabari at all costs

      Leading the terrorist a yard or so, the Executioner pulled the trigger and drilled a round through his target’s chest. The Boko Haram gunner looked shocked, as if he’d just awakened from a strange dream he didn’t understand. With his last few ounces of strength, he tried to lift his weapon.

      Another round caught him in the nose, and he dropped to the floor.

      The echoes of gunfire suddenly stopped. And when they did, Bolan heard distant shots coming from the direction he’d sent Paul and Jabari. The gunfire told him one thing: the battle raged on.

      Pivoting on the balls of his feet, Bolan changed directions, Kel-Tac leading the way.

      Insurrection

      Don Pendleton

      We make war that we may live in peace.

      —Aristotle

      Some people seem to have nothing on their agenda other than murder and mayhem. We call those people terrorists and must track down that evil and eradicate it. No quarter given.

      —Mack Bolan

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       Introduction

       Title Page

       Quotes

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       EPILOGUE

       Copyright

       PROLOGUE

      A disconcerting premonition of impending doom fell over Bishop Joshua Adewale like a cloak as his name was announced over the loudspeaker. He rose from his seat amid the applause all around him. The sinking feeling that had appeared so suddenly in his chest now dropped to his stomach. The anxiety intensified even further, making his legs feel as if they were filled with wet concrete that was one step away from setting.

      Adewale walked down the aisle to the stage and mounted the steps. He stopped behind the pulpit, then turned to face the congregation.

      The bishop took a deep breath as he looked out over the sea of faces that made up the Catholic Bishops Conference of Nigeria. Even now, as the gathering applauded, he realized his emotions were in conflict. He was delighted—and somewhat nostalgic—to have been invited back from New York to address the conference at this seminary where he had studied so many years ago. In the country of his birth. But at the same time, he couldn’t shake that sense of foreboding.

      There had been rumors of an Islamic extremist attack planned against the conference attendees. And in Nigeria, Islamic-based terror almost always meant Boko Haram.

      Adewale squeezed his fingers even tighter on the wooden podium as he cleared his throat. He knew in his heart that if he died this very second he would be on the fast train to meet Christ. Yet a small amount of the fear of death remained.

      “My brothers,” he said into the microphone in front of him, “it is an honor to—”

      Adewale never finished the sentence.

      The bomb shook the chapel as if hurricanes were assaulting it from all four sides. Bricks flew out of the walls like missiles, several finding human targets at the same time as a section of the roof blew down and fell in a huge chunk on one section of the pews. The screaming men in those pews disappeared in a cloud of plaster and splintered wood.

      Amid the shock of noise, Adewale felt helpless as debris continued to fly. The roiling smoke overtook him on the stage. It was only then that he realized he was no longer behind the pulpit. The blast had thrown him to the floor on his side. The pulpit was no longer in sight. It had been uprooted by the blast and sent sailing somewhere out over the congregation.

      Through the dust Adewale could make out dozens of other bishops whose black cassocks were now dingy gray. Those who were still mobile were scrambling toward the aisles. Many of the wooden pews had been blown from the bolts fastening them to the floor, and jagged pieces of wood and steel acted as shrapnel, slicing through flesh in the panic.

      For a moment Adewale lay frozen in surprise. Then pain seared through his left forearm and he looked down to see that something had cut deeply into him just below his elbow. But the dust was so thick, he couldn’t identify the object.

      His eyes burning, Adewale clamped his right hand over the wound in his left arm, and the bleeding slowed slightly.

      Through openings in the thick dust clouds the bishop could