Stand Down. Don Pendleton

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      Bolan’s calculated risk had gone terribly wrong

      He ran for the nearest cover, which happened to be the underside of the armored Escalade. Its chain gun was still pouring a firestorm of destruction into the rooftops. While it raked the left side of the street, the townspeople on the opposite side tried to take the SUV out by concentrating their fire, but the lighter rifle shells ricocheted off the body.

      Then Bolan heard an even louder racket above the earsplitting thunder of rifle fire as a shadow passed overhead. The helicopter came in low and out of the south, a pair of gunmen wielding M-16s shooting at the remaining riflemen on the roof. But then the M-249 on top of the Humvee swiveled and opened up as the helicopter approached, the 5.56 mm rounds spitting out to star the helicopter’s windshield.

      The pitch of the aircraft’s engine changed suddenly, turning choppy. The helicopter’s shadow began whirling around on the street as the pilot fought for control. Bolan watched the M-249 gunner pour more fire into the aircraft, and then heard a small explosion. The chopper reared up and accelerated right into a storefront, where its blades shattered into shards of deadly shrapnel flying in every direction. What was left of the fuselage crashed to the ground about fifteen yards from where Bolan was.

      The engine of the Escalade started, and Bolan flattened himself against the ground as the vehicle lurched backward and he was left lying in the middle of the road, while the SUV barreled down Main Street.

      Bolan was on his feet in a flash, running for the Humvee. The driver rolled down his window. “What’s your plan?”

      Bolan leaped into the rear of the vehicle and pulled back the cocking lever of the M-249. “We’ve got to stop them before they get back to the factory! They’re going to blow it up!”

       Stand Down

       The Executioner ^®

       Don Pendleton’s

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

      There is a certain enthusiasm in liberty, that makes human nature rise above itself, in acts of bravery and heroism.

      —Alexander Hamilton

      1755–1804

      One takedown at a time, I will rid this world of the evil that threatens our liberty and way of life—that’s not a threat, but a promise.

      —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

      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

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Epilogue

      Prologue

      Sandra Bitterman’s carefully constructed world in Quincyville, Kansas, came crashing down around her on Thursday evening at 6:14 p.m.

      Her husband Jack had called from the office, just like he did every night before coming home. Usually they talked of inconsequential things, but this night he seemed tense, distracted. He was speaking quietly, as if someone was nearby and he didn’t want to be overheard.

      Before she could ask him if anything was wrong, he said, “Oh, and about dinner, I’ve changed my mind. Don’t put the roast in—we’re going out.”

      Sandra had automatically started to reply before Jack’s words registered. “Okay—what was that?” She’d heard what he’d said, of course, but for a moment her brain refused to process the words.

      His voice took on that “don’t-screw-around-just-do-as-I-say” tone she knew all too well. “I said, ‘about dinner, I’ve changed my mind. Don’t put the roast in—we’re going out.’”

      Sandra had always been quick on her feet, and now she leaped to the occasion. Still clutching the cordless phone to her ear, she walked across the Italian tile floor of their kitchen, past the thirty-six-inch gas cooktop, past the Brazilian wood cabinets and into the plush, cream-colored carpeted hallway. “Sounds good to me. Are we finally going to that steakhouse you’ve been dying to try?”

      “It’s a surprise. Just have Kelly ready to go. I’ll be there soon. I love you, honey.”

      Sandra’s heart hammered in her chest. She knew Jack loved her, but he rarely said it. That he’d chosen to say it at this moment told her just how serious things were. “I love you, too. We’ll see you soon.”

      She backtracked to hang up the phone, then trotted to a cabinet above their glass door refrigerator-freezer and pulled the door open. Reaching in, she withdrew a compact Smith & Wesson Model 386 Night Guard chambered in .357 Magnum. Opening the cylinder, she checked the load, then flipped it closed again. She checked her pockets, but the slacks she wore wouldn’t allow her to carry the pistol comfortably. Opening the maple bread box, she slipped the pistol inside, then ran upstairs.

      Electro-pop music blared behind her daughter’s closed bedroom room. Sandra didn’t bother to knock, but twisted the knob and shoved it open, the door snagging on piles of dirty clothes. The room was a teenage explosion of angst and emerging style, with pop star and movie posters covering the walls. Her daughter lay on the bed, a textbook open in front of her. A tiny MP3 sound system pumped out the tunes as Sandra strode into the room.

      “Mo-om, what the he—?” Kelly looked up from her algebra textbook with annoyance and reached over to turn off the player, but Sandra caught her wrist before she could. The expression on her mother’s face cut her daughter off in midsentence.

      Sandra put her lips close to Kelly’s ear. “We have to go—now.”

      Kelly’s