Книга - Thunder Down Under

Thunder Down Under
Don Pendleton


OUTBACK SABOTAGEInvestigating a brutal attack on an Australian mineral plant is a mission outside of The Executioner's usual jurisdiction. But Mack Bolan is sure something's dead wrong when arrogant corporate mogul Angus Martin accuses a peaceful Aboriginal-rights group of lethal industrial sabotage. And from the moment he lands down under, Bolan is under attack by trained, ruthless mercenaries who are somehow two steps ahead of him. It will take all The Executioner's skill and determination to unravel the deadly conspiracy—and rain down his own brand of merciless justice!







OUTBACK SABOTAGE

Investigating a brutal attack on an Australian mineral plant is a mission outside of The Executioner’s usual jurisdiction. But Mack Bolan is sure something’s dead wrong when arrogant corporate mogul Angus Martin accuses a peaceful Aboriginal-rights group of lethal industrial sabotage. And from the moment he lands down under, Bolan is under attack by trained, ruthless mercenaries who are somehow two steps ahead of him. It will take all The Executioner’s skill and determination to unravel the deadly conspiracy—and rain down his own brand of merciless justice!







#375 Salvador Strike

#376 Frontier Fury

#377 Desperate Cargo

#378 Death Run

#379 Deep Recon

#380 Silent Threat

#381 Killing Ground

#382 Threat Factor

#383 Raw Fury

#384 Cartel Clash

#385 Recovery Force

#386 Crucial Intercept

#387 Powder Burn

#388 Final Coup

#389 Deadly Command

#390 Toxic Terrain

#391 Enemy Agents

#392 Shadow Hunt

#393 Stand Down

#394 Trial by Fire

#395 Hazard Zone

#396 Fatal Combat

#397 Damage Radius

#398 Battle Cry

#399 Nuclear Storm

#400 Blind Justice

#401 Jungle Hunt

#402 Rebel Trade

#403 Line of Honor

#404 Final Judgment

#405 Lethal Diversion

#406 Survival Mission

#407 Throw Down

#408 Border Offensive

#409 Blood Vendetta

#410 Hostile Force

#411 Cold Fusion

#412 Night’s Reckoning

#413 Double Cross

#414 Prison Code

#415 Ivory Wave

#416 Extraction

#417 Rogue Assault

#418 Viral Siege

#419 Sleeping Dragons

#420 Rebel Blast

#421 Hard Targets

#422 Nigeria Meltdown

#423 Breakout

#424 Amazon Impunity

#425 Patriot Strike

#426 Pirate Offensive

#427 Pacific Creed

#428 Desert Impact

#429 Arctic Kill

#430 Deadly Salvage

#431 Maximum Chaos

#432 Slayground

#433 Point Blank

#434 Savage Deadlock

#435 Dragon Key

#436 Perilous Cargo

#437 Assassin’s Tripwire

#438 The Cartel Hit

#439 Blood Rites

#440 Killpath

#441 Murder Island

#442 Syrian Rescue

#443 Uncut Terror

#444 Dark Savior

#445 Final Assault

#446 Kill Squad

#447 Missile Intercept

#448 Terrorist Dispatch

#449 Combat Machines

#450 Omega Cult

#451 Fatal Prescription

#452 Death List

#453 Rogue Elements

#454 Enemies Within

#455 Chicago Vendetta

#456 Thunder Down Under


Thunder Down Under

Don Pendelton







ISBN-13: 978-1-474-08613-4

Special thanks to Jonathan Morgan for his assistance in shaping this manuscript.

Special thanks and acknowledgement are given to John Helfers for his contribution to this work.

THUNDER DOWN UNDER

© 2018 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ®are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.


The biker was right on their tail, hitting the ramp only a few meters behind.

Bolan fought to keep the shaking car in the lane. If they stalled out here, they were as good as dead.

The biker moved a little closer, drawing a bead on the vehicle with his pistol. Bolan let his speed drop slightly, and the motorcycle sped even closer. Then the Executioner made his move.

Bolan’s Mercedes rocked to a stop in a shriek of protesting tires and scorched rubber. Bolan had already turned and was firing out the back window at the rider.

Even with the car’s sudden stop and bullets whizzing through the air around him, the biker managed to snap off two shots before wrenching the handlebars to the left to avoid a collision. He shot past the rear corner of the Mercedes, missing it by inches. The rider put three bullets into the right front fender before speeding ahead to merge with the cars on the highway.

Bolan heard police sirens and narrowed his gaze as he watched the shooter disappear among the traffic ahead of them. “Just in time.”


“Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming on you.”

—James 5:1

“I have nothing against someone making their fortune, but when they use that power to oppress others for personal gain, that’s a crossed line I will not tolerate. The rich may be different, but they are not above the law—and they are never above justice.”

—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 (#uad836379-17a6-5cde-8c22-785e5f18504b)

Back Cover Text (#u3bdd6e64-37d9-5562-a32e-f014b81fb22f)

Booklist (#uc3189d98-3bf2-5617-a4c5-7b228dfce478)

Title Page (#u8056ec0a-512c-540b-a08f-a8418c4f2174)

Copyright (#ue05b770e-36cc-523f-a7a7-1b1eec286e5f)

Introduction (#u96b10634-1f10-5308-8581-24d68c6afbbf)

Quotes (#u4ad2f73c-60c2-5c7c-8922-e802d4dc7be1)

The Mack Bolan Legend (#u602c908d-9b3a-5bb1-bf03-bbb51ecc9ff7)

Chapter One (#uf523a2a8-9180-5e75-94b6-979220d2d255)

Chapter Two (#uea3f9851-40f2-5cb0-aef8-414cee13a03e)

Chapter Three (#uf3cf13b5-dc0d-5e64-9323-f31c2ddd29ed)

Chapter Four (#ue7467991-19f2-549f-a4f8-94050f1d3cd4)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ufa9f3385-7a6c-5d6f-82e6-97db4716f625)

As the Range Rover jounced down the rutted dirt road, each bump making him lift off his seat and thump back down, Connor King couldn’t keep the ear-to-ear smile off his unwrinkled, clean-shaved face. He’d never felt more like his surname in his life.

Despite his glee, the twenty-two-year-old kept a sharp eye out across the flat, scrubby, tan-and-brown Outback he and his Mobile Patrol partner were zooming across. This was his first real assignment after finishing security officer training and he didn’t want to mess it up.

But no matter what happened today, it couldn’t be worse than where he’d been six months ago: unemployed and broke after dropping out of university when he’d lost his rugby scholarship due to a knee injury during a pickup scrum.

The only problem was that being jobless and laid-up meant he’d been only a few days from living on the streets. That’s when a former teammate had passed him the name of Wallcorloo National, the energy company his father worked for, saying they were looking for security personnel. Even injured, King had been in good enough shape to ace the WN interview process and the company had seen fit to take him on in a probationary capacity. He also found that the skills he’d acquired during his two years of school had helped him learn the bookwork fast. The company even helped him with physical therapy during his course work and that, in turn, had led him to acing the physical tests. Self-defense, marksmanship, defensive driving—he had loved every minute of it and earned glowing reports from the instructors.

These days his knee felt better than ever.

“Strewth, mate, dial it back a bit, will ya?” Logan Weathers grunted, eyeing him from behind a pair of yellow shooter’s glasses. “Your yapper’s grinning so wide I think the top of your head’s gonna fall off.”

King didn’t know a lot about his new partner, only that he had twelve years’ experience with the company and looked like he’d seen more than a thing or two. With his tanned face and arms, crow’s-feet around his eyes and rangy physique, the weathered man could have strode right out of the Outback and into his security uniform yesterday. But even with his rough-and-tumble exterior, Weathers exuded a calm professionalism—when he wasn’t teasing his new partner—and the last thing King wanted to do was to screw up or disappoint him in any way.

“Sorry, Logan.” He ran a hand through his brush-cut blond hair. “Just anxious to get to work, that’s all.”

“Bloody newbies,” the older man said with gruff affection. “Only you probies get excited about driving to the ass end of nowhere to look over an auto-pump station.”

King’s expression fell and his forehead furrowed a bit. “Yeah, but you saw the sec warning that went out yesterday, right? The Bushmen are stirrin’ up trouble again and we have to make sure they’re not fuckin’ around with company property—”

“Oi, the good Lord save me from another wet-behind-the-ears rookie who thinks he’s Mad Fucking Max,” Weathers said. “I dunno who’s pegged them for this, but whoever it is has got rocks for brains. There ain’t no splinter indigenous terrorist group running around committing industrial vandalism. Even if there was, there’s no way in hell they’d traipse all the way out here to do it. There’s plenty of closer targets that would get a lot more play on the news, if that’s what they’re after.”

King mulled that over for a few moments. What his partner said made sense, but still didn’t account for what they were doing out there. The two men had left early in the morning on their day trip, flying out from Melbourne to the isolated town of Alice Springs. From there they were driving the last 140 kilometers to inspect an automatic liquefied natural gas pumping station on the edge of the Amadeus deposit, WN’s latest acquired field and the site of its most advanced gas mining system. But the way King looked at it...

“Maybe, but those sites are also more heavily guarded, especially after the Oz Minerals incident last month. Those vandals set their copper mining schedule back almost a year and caused a few million in damages,” he insisted. “And this one’s Wallcorloo’s new state-of-the-art system, so busting it up would still get those vandals some attention. But even if you’re right, and this site isn’t a target, then why’d they send us out here in the first place?”

Weathers smiled at that and King got the feeling he’d somehow set a trap for himself. “’Cause this isolated site is the perfect training ground for greenies like yourself.

“And it’s nothing to fret over,” Weathers continued. “Actually, it means something that they had me bring you all the way out here on your first field assignment. Means they like what they see. Means they got plans for you. So just keep yer eyes and ears open and do what I say, and maybe your next assignment’ll be near a beach somewhere. Instead of humping a whole day back home like we’re gonna, you’ll only be a hop, skip and a jump away from a cold draft and a warm sheila.”

King smiled. “Amen.”

“Eh, here we are.” The Range Rover crested a small rise and King focused his attention on the forty-plus acres of pipes and machinery representing the pinnacle of liquid natural gas drilling.

He stared at it while going over the facts he’d been required to memorize during his training. The Amadeus field site was completely automated and cost more than $9 million AU to construct. It could extract and compress fourteen thousand metric tonnes of LNG every twenty-four hours, and have it ready for pickup via an automated truck-relay system through the underground offloading hangar once it entered the full production stage.

At least half of the entire facility was underground, but it wouldn’t take anyone all that much effort to sabotage the aboveground systems and cause major damage to the well.

Wallcorloo had already entered a contract with Tesla for a fleet of its first-generation electric trucks, and was working with them to add solar panels to extend their range in the unforgiving desert. King had scratched his head when he’d first heard about that plan, and wondered how they were going to deal with the ever-present dust, but had shoved the thought aside, realizing it wasn’t his problem. Just as long as they don’t get rid of my job.

“So, I take it we’re not gonna spend the rest of the day driving around the place, right?” he asked.

“Hey, they did teach you a thing or two in that classroom,” Weathers replied. “We’ll do some on-site spot-checking a bit later, but we gotta do some aerial reconnaissance first. Come on.”

He drove down the small hill to the main gate, which slid open as the Range Rover approached. King knew that was because the sensors mounted on the fence had already scanned the vehicle—including the faces of its occupants—and matched them with the scheduled patrol in the computer. If any other vehicle had driven up, the heavy steel gate would have remained locked and an alert would have been sent to WN headquarters outside Adelaide.

King checked his phone to see if HQ had sent out another alert regarding possible vandals, or even if the security system had detected any trespassers out here and notified base. He shook his head as he realized that, of course, home base would have let them know if they were about to run into trouble.

“Relax. I’m telling you, we’re the only ones out here for a couple hundred kilometers.” Weathers drove inside and parked the vehicle near a quartet of plain, wind-scoured wooden bunkhouses, where either engineers or security would stay on a longer trip.

“Remember your water.” Weathers shook a liter bottle at King as he cracked his door, the comfortable air-conditioning evaporating like it had never existed as a searing, bone-dry breeze blew into the SUV’s cab.

King grabbed his bottle and also made sure his security belt, with its radio, handcuffs, pepper spray, collapsible metal baton and sidearm, was secure and properly situated on his hips. They’d removed the belts for the long drive out, but now that they’d arrived, he wanted to make sure he was properly attired for the assignment...just in case.

Opening his door, he stepped out into the midday heat, feeling his skin already drying in the baking climate. He put on a khaki bush hat to protect his head from the sun’s merciless rays, then walked to his partner, who was already at the back of the Rover.

Weathers had opened the rear door and was pulling a large, black-plastic case to the edge of the cargo area. He unsnapped the catches and lifted the lip to reveal a large black-and-red device nestled in a foam cutout. Removing it, he snapped two folding legs into place to allow the sleek industrial drone to stand. Picking up a hard-cased iPad from a narrow slot in the foam, he powered it up and opened the pilot app for the RMUS heavy-duty police drone, testing the five rotors and underslung 360-degree camera.

“This baby will cover the entire perimeter in about thirty minutes. We can record our flight, zoom in, the whole nine yards,” Weathers told his partner as he put the drone through its test paces. “Grab it and come on over here.”

King picked it up by the legs, surprised by its weight. He followed the older man a few meters away from the Range Rover and set it on the ground, then retreated to the rear of the vehicle.

Weathers hit a button on the tablet screen and the five rotors spun, accelerating until they were a ring of black blurs around the drone’s central housing. With a loud buzz and a puff of dust, it rose into the air, climbing until it was just a speck in the sky and could barely be heard.

He piloted it out over the first section of the facility. “Might as well take a load off,” he said. “Doubt we’re gonna see anything ’cept a few wallabies bouncing around.”

King nodded, his eyes glued to the tablet screen, which was giving them a drone’s-eye view of the LNG plant. The dozens of neat rows of white pipes gleamed in the sun, even under the light coating of ever-present dust that covered everything out here. He watched Weathers guide the drone out to the ten-foot, chain-link perimeter fence, the HD camera so clear he could see sunlight glinting off the points of the razor wire topping the security barrier.

“So far, so good.” Weathers fell silent as he started flying the drone along the fence. Section after section ticked by under the little vehicle’s camera—until both men saw something that made them pause.

King inhaled sharply. “Is that—”

“Fresh boot prints?” Weathers finished. “Looks like it.” He zoomed in on the tracks. “At least a couple people came through there, maybe as many as four.”

“But...no one’s been out here for weeks,” King said. “Those should have blown away by now.” He was all too familiar with the constantly shifting Outback, which could erase all signs of a person’s or vehicle’s passage in hours.

“Agreed,” Logan said as he opened another app on the iPad. “Let’s see where these go while I call this in.”

The drone began following the trail as the tablet connected with a satellite and routed the call to WN HQ. After a few seconds a pleasant-faced woman with a headset appeared in the window.

“Wallcorloo National Security Division, how may I help you?”

“This is Senior Patrol Officer Logan Weathers, with Probationary Officer Connor King at the Amadeus LNG plant,” Logan replied. “We’re reporting a drone sighting of what looks like trespasser tracks inside the facility. To the best of our knowledge, there isn’t supposed to be anyone on-site at this time.” As he spoke, Weathers isolated the footage and forwarded it to the security woman.

“We’ve received no notice of an intrusion.” The woman reviewed the snippet of video, a faint furrow appearing above the bridge of her nose. “Are you sure this isn’t leftover tracks by the last engineer team?”

“Pretty sure,” Weathers replied. “Especially considering they would have started out from right where we’re standing now. How should we follow up?”

“Just a moment.” The woman was typing something on the keyboard in front of her and began speaking into her headset, but King couldn’t hear what she was saying. He flashed a quizzical frown at Logan, who was still watching the screen.

“She’s kicking it upstairs. Standard CYA procedure.” Eyes still on the screen, Weathers removed a keychain from his belt, selected a small black key by feel and held it out to the younger man. “Open the weapons locker in the back.”

“You sure? I mean, she hasn’t even come back yet—”

“Officer Weathers, thanks for holding,” the woman said. “We are classifying this as a Level 1 Incident. You and your partner are to investigate the tracks and secure the area, making sure that no trespassers are on the grounds. Anyone you encounter should be taken into custody. Above all, take care to prevent any damage to the facility. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “We’ll report in once we’ve cleared the area. Weathers out.”

He blanked the comm screen and returned his attention to the drone’s camera view. “Hang on...what the hell’s going on here?”

King leaned over to glimpse what his partner was looking at. He caught flashes of figures moving among the pipes deep in the complex. Weathers zoomed the drone camera in as far as he could, until it appeared they were only a few meters from the trespassers.

The younger man grunted. “Definitely got blokes running around where they shouldn’t be. No sign of a vehicle, which means they must’ve stashed it nearby and walked in.”

Something was niggling at King’s mind and he voiced it the moment it crystallized. “But how’d they get inside without setting off any alarms?”

Weathers nodded. “Bloody good question. We’ll be sure to ask ’em once we have ’em in custody. Break out the heavy stuff, mate.”

Trying to control his suddenly shaky hand, King flipped back the carpet in the Rover’s cargo area and unlocked the steel-lined compartment underneath. Lifting the cover revealed two Heckler & Koch MP-5 K personal defense weapons and several 30-round magazines, plus black bulletproof vests and ceramic riot helmets with clear visors.

“How do you want to play this?” King asked, pleased to note that he sounded reasonably calm given the circumstances.

“We’re taking no chances.” Weathers set the drone to hover where it was in the crystal-clear blue sky, then pulled a vest out and slipped it over his head. “Suit up. Helmet, too.”

In a couple of minutes they were both outfitted in protective gear. The older man nodded at the compact submachine gun. “Load up with nonlethal, but grab a couple regular mags, just in case. Don’t forget we’re watching out for the facility, as well.”

“What if they’re armed, too, and using real bullets?” King asked as he cleared the chamber and checked the action on his HK. He then loaded a magazine of rubber bullets and chambered one.

“Well, we should have surprise. So, assuming we get the drop on them, we should have them dead-bang.” Logan adjusted his shooter’s glasses then flipped his helmet visor over his face. “If not, and they start shooting, we’re damn sure shooting back—with lead. I don’t care how much this place cost, I’m not laying my life down for it and you ain’t, either. Got it?”

King nodded as the older man set the iPad down and opened the drone control app on his smartphone, attaching it to his forearm with a Velcro sleeve. “Good, let’s go catch us some vandals.”

His hammering heart feeling like it had risen to the back to his throat, King followed his partner in the approved fashion, a meter back and a meter off to his right. The older man held his HK in a loose port arms, ready to bring the weapon into action at a moment’s notice. In minutes, they’d left the Rover behind and entered the maze of parallel pipes and pumping control stations of the facility proper.

“We probably aren’t gonna see them for a few minutes as least, but keep your eyes open, anyway,” Weathers muttered as they checked a corner before creeping around it. “If they’re smart enough to bust in without setting off the alarms—”

His voice was cut off in midsentence and King felt drops of something patter across his helmet and visor like a burst of rain. He glanced at his partner to ask him what had happened, only to see the other man falling to the ground, blood fountaining from his misshapen head as the report of the weapon that had killed him thundered across the desert.

King stood stock-still for a moment before his reflexes kicked in and he dived to the hard-packed dirt as another shot buzzed overhead, followed by the report again. Weathers’s body had finished its graceless collapse and lay in an ungainly heap, his arms and legs twitching as his nervous system sent last, fruitless, messages to limbs incapable of reacting anymore.

King could hear a high-pitched wheezing and it took him a moment to realize he was making the noise as he panted for breath. Blood roared in his ears as his pressure spiked and he tasted an acrid, metallic tang in his suddenly dry mouth. His training reasserted itself after a few moments and he scrabbled for his radio, which would link to a satellite relay and allow him to call back to base.

“WN Security, officer down! I repeat, officer down! This is Probationary Officer Connor King. Come in please!” he said.

A voice replied after a couple seconds’ delay. “This is WN Security. Go ahead, Officer King.”

“I am under fire by unknown number of assailants at the Amadeus LNG site! My partner is down. I think—I think he’s dead!” King was sure of it, actually, but he didn’t want to commit to that over the radio. “I’ve taken cover nearby, please advise!”

“All right, Officer King, stay calm,” the dispatcher said. “Do you have a visual on your attackers?”

“Uh, no, not really...hang on.” Swallowing the fist-sized lump in his throat, King turned and stuck his head out past the corner of the pipe wall for a brief second, then pulled it back, expecting to see two or three attackers charging toward him.

But other than Weathers’s motionless body, there was no one there.

“Officer King, please report your status,” the voice said.

“No—I have no visual. Repeat, I have no visual on the assailants.”

“All right. We’re sending reinforcements via helicopter, but they won’t be there for approximately three hours. You are to fall back to your vehicle and exit the perimeter, then take up a defensive position to cover the front gate. Help is on the way. Do you understand?”

“Affirmative.” King glanced over at Weathers’s legs. “What about...what about Officer Weathers?”

“Our telemetry readings show him to be deceased” came the dispassionate reply. “We do not want you to risk your own life trying to recover his body. Fall back as ordered, and your backup team will assist you upon their arrival.”

“Yeah...yeah, I hear you. Officer King falling back as ordered.” He cut the transmission and holstered his radio then gripped his subgun tighter and decided to risk one more glance down the corridor of pipes before moving out. Taking a deep breath, he readied his weapon to fire before peeking out again.

And, once again, the corridor was completely empty. What the hell? Where were they? he wondered. Glancing at his partner’s body, he focused on the smartphone on Weathers’s forearm, wondering if he should retrieve it. What, and risk getting his head blown off, as well? he thought. He had to get the hell out of there, like they’d told him.

The only problem was that he would have to run at least a couple straightaways to get back to the Rover—and there was every indication that the unseen shooter was waiting for him to do just that. For a moment he thought of just hunkering down and waiting for help to arrive, but he discarded that plan since the other people on-site might already be creeping up on him right now.

Time to go. King rose, took one last deep breath and then took off running back the way he’d come. He zigzagged as erratically as possible, trying to throw off the aim of anyone looking to shoot him, and expecting to feel the punch of a bullet between his shoulder blades at any moment. A ghoulish thought ran through his mind as he ran for his life: at least a head shot would mean he’d never feel it...

The left corner that should give him cover from the shooter was only a few meters ahead, and King poured on the speed, giving it everything he had. He juked one more time, then aimed for the corner and rounded it in a spray of desert dust. Once there, he plastered his back against the vertical row of pipes and waited a few moments, sucking in the parching desert air. Remembering his water bottle, he grabbed it and drained it. The warm, flat liquid had never tasted so good.

Almost there... His sprint had brought him a lot closer to the vehicle. He figured one more balls-to-the-wall run could get him to its relative safety. He slung his HK and then took several deep breaths, trying to load up on oxygen for the final dash.

Three...two...one...go! Arms and legs pumping for all they were worth, he retraced the path back outside the facility, still zigzagging every few steps to present a more difficult target.

Every step felt like it took a minute. His combat-booted feet pounded the ground, sending puffs of dust up around his legs, but Connor didn’t pause to look down or back. He didn’t stop for anything, just kept moving toward his goal, just like when he’d carried the ball back at university and nothing was gonna stop him from reaching the line—

And just like that, he hit the blisteringly hot side of the Range Rover so hard he almost bounced off it. Crouching, King duck-walked around the back to the passenger side, figuring he should be safe from the shooter there.

The sun was still high overhead and beat down mercilessly on his uncovered head. King realized he’d lost his hat somewhere, but didn’t care about that; he just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Dropping to the ground, he crawled underneath the SUV to the right front tire, then reached up into the wheel well to clean the dust off the spare-key holder mounted there. Digging out his smartphone, he transmitted a combination and was rewarded with the small box popping open. Grabbing the ignition key, he closed the box, was about to crawl back to the passenger side when he happened to look at the rear of the vehicle and the open cargo bay.

The drone... The footage it had taken could reveal who had set up the ambush. In any case, it would be invaluable evidence of what had happened.

Connor swallowed hard. It was a hell of a risk but one he had to take.

He began crawling toward the back of the Range Rover, ready for someone to charge up and demand he come out of there, or just shoot him where he lay. But no voices were heard, no bullets were fired, and he reached the back with no difficulty.

Stretching up again, he couldn’t get to the iPad from where he was and had to stick his upper body out to grab it. Again, he tensed at the possibility of a bullet plowing through him, but he was able to recover the tablet and scoot back under cover of the SUV without incident. Waking it up, he took control of the drone, which was still hovering in place over the facility, and guided it back to him. At any point he expected the phantom sniper to blow it out of the sky and was a bit surprised to see it settle to an ungainly landing near the back of the Rover.

King stretched out far enough to grab it and toss it into the cargo bay, then shoved the door closed behind it. Next, he slithered through the dust to the passenger side, unlocked his door and crawled inside. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he stayed hunched over as he slid the key into the ignition and started the Rover.

The window next to him exploded in a shower of safety glass pellets, and his shoulder felt like it had been struck with a sledgehammer. Pain bloomed across his chest. The closest thing he could compare it to was being dump-tackled during a scrum his freshman year and his shoulder being dislocated when he slammed into the ground. This injury was similar but about a hundred times more painful, and even worse. Connor tried to lift his right hand enough to engage the gearshift lever, but it refused to obey his frantic mental efforts.

As the echoes of the sniper’s shot died away, King could hear the crunch of boots approaching his position. He tried to make his right arm move again and was gratified to have it obey, if haltingly. No matter, he managed to get his numbed hand around the pistol grip of his HK and tried to bring it up to point at his assailant.

“Whoa, mate!” a voice said as the driver’s door opened and King fell out, the submachine gun pulled out of his hand as he tumbled onto the hardpan. He hit with an impact that sent agony screaming down his chest and opened his mouth to speak, only to expel a gob of blood onto the ground.

“Hey—he ain’t dead yet,” the man said to someone King couldn’t see. Something about the speaker’s voice sounded familiar and he struggled to look up at him. “Yeah. Fetch the drone. We’re gonna need it, too.”

His vision tunneling into a gray haze, King looked up at the person who had most likely killed him—and his mouth dropped open again when he saw the uniform of his attacker. “Wh-wh—” he tried to say through the blood filling his throat.

“Sorry, mate,” the man said as he aimed a pistol between the younger man’s eyes. “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The muzzle exploding in a blast of flame was the last thing Connor King saw.


Chapter Two (#ufa9f3385-7a6c-5d6f-82e6-97db4716f625)

Barbara Price had rarely seen her boss so angry.

No, the mission controller for Stony Man Farm thought as she shifted in her leather chair at the long conference table, she’d never seen him this angry.

To be fair, however, the Justice Department honcho and director of the Sensitive Operations Group, part of the clandestine organization known as Stony Man, based at Stony Man Farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, was doing an admirable job of restraining his temper. With his pouched, slightly bloodshot eyes and sometimes dour demeanor, the big Fed resembled a bulldog someone had dressed in a rumpled suit.

Price had worked with him for so long that she could read every physical tic, from his blunt fingers tightly intertwined on table in front of him, to the jut of his jaw as he clamped down on the unlit cigar sticking defiantly out of his mouth. He was furious, to put it bluntly.

At the moment, however, she couldn’t tell what he was more upset with, although she had a pretty good idea.

The first possibility was playing out on a TV monitor on the wall in front of them.

“—these attacks on sovereign Australian industries are an offense against the good, hardworking men and women of this country and they have to stop immediately!”

Angus Martin—the man’s name was plastered across the bottom of the screen—was florid-faced and paunchy, with a shock of unruly, light red hair and the beginnings of jowls starting to cover what was otherwise a strong jawline. He shook a finger at his interviewer as she tried to follow up with a question.

“This most recent one resulted in the deaths of two fine Mobile Patrol officers!” he continued. “It’s the latest in a long string of outrages that have been inflicted on my company and its personnel by these cretins, and we’re not going to take it anymore! I’ve asked the local and national government time after time to step in and stop these terrorists, the so-called AFN—”

“Yes, the nonviolent political group known as Aboriginal Freedom Now—” the interviewer tried to interject.

“Nonviolent my arse!” Martin nearly shouted. “Why don’t you ask what my two employees think about their ‘nonviolent’ methods? Oh, that’s right, you can’t—because they’re dead! Nevertheless, the governing politicians seem content to sit on their bloody hands and let these...these people continue to run amok and destroy the livelihoods of hundreds—no, thousands—of decent Australian citizens just trying to earn a living! It’s absolutely disgraceful, I’m telling you, and I’ll keep repeating that until people start listening!”

Martin, dressed in what would have been an impressive three-piece suit if it had been tailored for his chunky frame, continued his monologue over the vain efforts of the interviewer to get a word in edgewise. “Mark my words—I will not stand for another assault on my own country’s infrastructure, and the Australian people won’t stand for it, either! If these bastards think they’re gonna stop me from mining the interior—which I have the absolute right to do, by the way—they’ve got another think coming!”

Brognola snatched the unlit cigar from his mouth and waved it at the loudmouth on the monitor. “All right, turn it off. I’ve heard enough.”

Price was sure he had. However she would have bet her next paycheck the real target of Brognola’s ire was sitting in the third occupied seat in the room.

“As you can see, Mr. Martin is quite upset at what is happening to his family’s company, in his own country,” Christian Payne, the pallid, bloodless man dressed in a spotless, navy Brooks Brothers’ three-piece suit, said as he steepled his fingers. “While the US government has more pressing matters on its plate in other parts of the world, word of this particular...issue has reached the Oval Office and the President has tasked me with coming up with a solution.” The man spread his hands to indicate Brognola and Price. “Which is why I’m here speaking with both of you today. And I have to say, I did not appreciate having to wear a blindfold during the flight here. It’s ridiculous.”

Brognola leaned forward in his chair. “Mr. Payne, the security of this facility is a top priority. I’m sure the President holds you in high regard, but to be blunt, advisers come and go. I know you can appreciate that the whereabouts of Stony Man must be safeguarded.

“And so to the matter at hand... Maybe you can fill me in on exactly what we’re supposed to do?” he asked. “Babysitting a spoiled billionaire isn’t in our scope of operations and, last time I checked, Stony Man doesn’t have any surveyors on staff to scope out potential locations for another gaudy hotel.”

The corner of Payne’s mouth twitched but he managed to restrain himself. He was about to reply when there was a knock at the door, making all three of them look up.

Price’s mouth started to fall open when she saw Stony Man’s resident hacker, Akira Tokaido, standing behind a rolling cart containing cups, a creamer and sugar dish, and a large, insulated carafe. She quickly snapped it closed as he nodded to everyone. “Just brought some coffee for you all.”

“Um, thank you.” Payne seemed a bit thrown off by his arrival, but recovered quickly as Tokaido wheeled the cart in.

Price exchanged a puzzled glance with Brognola—neither of them had ordered coffee. What’s more, Tokaido was the last person they expected to see pouring it. What was he up to?

“Coffee, Ms. Price?” the young computer hacker asked.

“Um, yes, thank you...Akira.” She watched him carefully as he poured, but the young man gave nothing away as he placed her cup and saucer in front of her. It was only when she leaned forward to get a whiff of the brew that she realized what he—or more likely Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, his boss, and he—had done.

Oh, no—

Unable to say anything, she watched as Payne added sugar and cream to his cup and blew on it as he continued talking. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. Brognola, Australia contains vast mineral and rare earth resources that are necessary for industrial manufacturing here in the United States. Purchasing them from a friendly nation precludes the issue of trying to purchase them from other, possibly not-so-friendly sources.”

“Oh, come now, I’m sure your buddies in the Kremlin will spot you some of that rare earth you all seem to suddenly like so much,” Brognola replied as Tokaido set a cup of black coffee in front of him. The movement distracted Payne from seeing Price possibly wince. “Just get on your private line to the president—the Russian one, of course—and I bet he’d set you right up.”

Payne fixed Brognola over the rim of his cup with what he no doubt thought was a steely glare of his watery brown eyes. It was like watching a goldfish try to stare down a grizzly bear. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Price would have laughed.

“Mr. Brognola, I don’t know what you think you know, but I can assure you that neither I nor the President appreciate your insinuations.” With that, he raised the cup to his lips and sipped.

The expression that appeared his face would have been priceless under any other circumstances. Kurtzman’s brew was legendary for its ability to resemble something that looked and somewhat smelled like coffee, but that was where the resemblance ended. No one knew what he used to make it, or how he brewed it, but it was safe to say it was some of the vilest liquid on the planet.

For the first time Payne’s face twisted in what could demonstrably be seen as an actual human reaction. His lips pursed and his nose, eyes and forehead scrunched into an unmistakable grimace at the acrid, bitter taste.

“Well, if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks state secrets like a duck...” While speaking, Brognola picked up his cup, as well, and took a tentative sip. “But, overall, I wouldn’t know, Mr. Payne,” he said after swallowing, “since the President only saw fit to grace us with his presence for about five minutes since his inauguration. Instead, I just meet with one of his representatives and we keep doing what we’ve been doing for the past few administrations.”

With a strangled gasp that he valiantly tried to disguise as clearing his throat, Payne put the cup back down on the saucer and pushed it away so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the polished table. Price regarded it for a moment, wondering if this was the batch that would finally eat through the wood.

Payne started to speak, coughed, cleared his throat and then tried again. “As I recall, that is the job of the POTUS regarding your operation, correct? To be instrumental in advising this...facility as to its overall mission and general objectives.”

Brognola raised a bushy eyebrow and even Price was surprised at the bureaucrat’s quotation of the document that delineated, in the broadest terms, the arms-length agreement between the White House and the Farm—an arrangement that had worked very well so far. Payne, as an adviser to the President, had access to very sensitive information at the highest levels of clearance. That didn’t bode well for Stony Man at all.

Lowering his eyebrow, the big Fed placed his cigar in the other side of his mouth. “Indeed. And what—precisely—does the President wish us to do about this situation?”

“Well...that’s the reason I decided to come here personally.” Payne looked around the room, which, while not richly appointed, was comfortable enough for those who used it on a day-to-day basis. “There has been some...disagreement over what it is that you people actually do here.”

“I’m sure you already know about my jacket with Justice, so I won’t bore you with the details. The operatives of Stony Man are professional troubleshooters on a long-term contract with the United States government,” Brognola said in a flat tone.

The answer must have satisfied Payne because he seemed to relax slightly. “That seems to be a fair assessment overall. And that is exactly what we need—a, er, troubleshooter to travel to Melbourne and look into this situation on our behalf. After all, the business of America is business, right?”

“Actually, President Coolidge’s quote is ‘the business of the American people is business,’” Price said. “It’s often misquoted, but it’s a rather important distinction.”

Her correction drew what passed for a glare from Payne. She barely felt it. If this was the best the White House could dredge up, she mused, the government just might be in worse shape than she thought.

“Regardless, we want you to send one of your people down there to reassure Martin and take a look around, try to find out what’s really going on there. Supposedly your people are discreet, which is of importance in handling this matter. All the necessary details are in the report we’ve forwarded to you,” Payne said as he rose from his chair. “And I’ll be checking in with you on the progress of this mission on a regular basis.”

“We look forward to coordinating our resources with, uh, you. I’ll walk you out.”

“No need—I can find the way.” With a brusque nod at both of them, Payne began striding out of the room.

“That’s all right, I’m heading back that way myself.” It was more than professional courtesy Price was extending—she didn’t want him roaming around the farmhouse for a second.

She escorted the President’s adviser to the front entrance where he got into a vehicle and headed to the airstrip and the helicopter that would head to DC.

Price exhaled wearily—even though it wasn’t even noon yet—and walked back to the conference room to join Brognola. He was still sitting in his chair and he raised his head to stare back at her with an expression she had rarely seen on him before.

“Tell me something, Barbara. Have I missed something or have general IQs dropped sharply in the past year or two?”

“I don’t know. Do you mean outside the Farm or that juvenile stunt that Akira and Bear just pulled?” She spread her hands and shrugged. “To be honest, I didn’t think we could sink any lower than these past couple of years, but lately it seems the world is continually trying to surprise me.”

“You and me both.” Brognola glared at the screen, then looked east, toward the general direction of Capitol Hill and the White House. “It’s not like we haven’t weathered our share of incompetents and interfering busybodies before, but this is beyond the pale.”

Price nodded, opting to remain silent on the matter. A certain amount of political turnover and renewal was often the case when the presidency changed hands, but in this most recent case, this new administration had been much more difficult to work with.

“So, give me the rundown on this Martin guy and what’s going on Down Under,” Brognola said. “There’s been no reason to even look at Australia for any real terrorist activity that extends to more than a few people, and certainly no major organized activity. Even that man who ran his car into that crowd in Melbourne last year? The final report was that he was mentally ill and trying to protest the treatment of his fellow Muslims by the government. The biggest actual thing I can remember was when Turkey’s General Consul was assassinated back in 1980. Hell, they even outlawed the majority of their guns a couple decades back, didn’t they?”

Price nodded. “That’s all correct. This situation is a bit more unusual, due to the parties involved.” She pressed a button on her tablet and another picture of the man who had been ranting on the television appeared on the monitor.

“Angus Martin is a billionaire industrialist who runs Wallcorloo National, his energy company, which is headquartered in Melbourne. He’s third generation and, while he inherited the company from his father, he’s taken it to astounding new heights, building it to among the largest companies on the continent over the last fifteen years.”

“Probably on the backs of the public, if I know his type,” the big Fed grumbled around his stogie. “Okay, so what’s his problem?”

“Over the past year, there have been several vandalism and industrial sabotage incidents aimed at various Australian companies. They’ve been mostly limited to equipment damage, although there was an incident at a copper mine involving explosives that brought down a side of an open pit. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

Price slid her finger across the tablet and an icon of a white wallaby in a hard hat against a sky-blue background came up. Under it was the words Wallcorloo National. “Wallcorloo is involved in rare earth mineral and natural gas mining throughout the continent.”

She moved on to the next slide: a map of Australia with a small red dot in roughly the center of the continent. “The most recent incident occurred ten days ago at their automated LNG mining and refining plant on the edge of the Amadeus field, a massive natural gas deposit.” She brought up two smaller pictures, one of an older man, the other of a man in his early twenties. “Along with the on-site sabotage, estimated to delay full production by several weeks and cost more than two million dollars, two men, Logan Weathers and Connor King, were killed as a result of a clash with the saboteurs. As of this briefing, the perpetrators haven’t yet been caught.”

“And Martin thinks the indigenous population—specifically the AFN—is behind this?” Brognola frowned. “If so, that’s news to me. There hasn’t been any sort of organized resistance like that since...well, ever, as far as I know.”

Price’s eyebrows raised but she lowered them just as quickly. It wasn’t that her superior was wrong; she was just a bit surprised that he knew about the general history of indigenous protest and resistance in Australia at all. But that’s what made him Hal Brognola—behind his sometimes unkempt appearance and gruff demeanor hid an analytical mind like a titanium trap.

“Correct, Hal,” she replied, bringing up another slide of what looked like a ruddy-red cliff rising out of the ground against a white background. “Aboriginal Freedom Now was established back in 2002, and has always espoused open dialogue and nonviolent means to bring about change between the government and the indigenous population. That’s why this raised a red flag at our Australian embassy, which sent the report that I think eventually put this scenario on this administration’s radar.”

“Well, that and this blowhard spouting off about this group. Has AFN released any kind of official statement about that incident?”

“Yes, clearly stating that they had no involvement, and condemning the deaths of those two officers in the strongest terms possible.” Price set her tablet on the table. “The fact is, as you’d mentioned, there isn’t any record of a group resorting to this kind of violence in the country, especially not murder, to accomplish their aims.”

“Right. Look, I feel for them—both the victims and the AFN receiving what sounds like a smear job from Martin—but this still sounds like a matter the locals would be better equipped to handle,” Brognola replied. “I respect the hell out of them, and I’m pretty sure they don’t want us sticking our nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Price said. “As Payne went to such lengths to intimate, Martin’s got a lot in common with a certain person in DC—he’s boorish and brash, but he’s got too much money and political clout to simply ignore. And Payne was right about one thing—those minerals in Australia would be easier to buy from Aussies than from somewhere hostile to the US. Our ambassador, however, stated in her report that due to the delicate situation with the indigenous population and their struggle for increased rights, the government would actually appreciate it if an outside investigator would come in and take a look at the situation. Naturally, neither she nor her counterparts could go on the record with this—the embarrassment would be intense. But she’s assured us that the Australian parliament would be very grateful if we could get to the bottom of this issue—unofficially, of course.”

“And you think this is the best use of both our and Striker’s time and resources?”

“At the moment, yes.” Price sat in a chair closer to him. “And although I know you hate dancing to anyone’s tune, with so much uncertainty around DC these days, it might be best to suck it up this time and notch a win on our belt. We can be team players, right?”

Brognola’s hand went to his chest as if he was trying to soothe an incipient case of heartburn. “I may have trained you too well, Barbara. You do know if we give someone like Payne an inch, he’ll come back and take a mile?”

“Right now, I don’t see that we have any choice. We have to make if we’re going to keep doing what we’re doing. At least until after the next election.”

“You’re right.” The big Fed heaved a sigh then straightened and got that familiar glint in his eye. “Okay, I’ll call Striker in on this on one condition—that there is no blowback for Akira and Bear regarding the coffee incident.”

“Hal...” Recognizing the box she was in, Price threw up her hands and nodded. “All right, no blowback. At least Mack is nearby in Philadelphia.” She rose and headed for the door to begin preparing for Bolan’s mission. “No wonder everyone around here just goes around doing whatever they want...”

“Now, Barbara, you know that’s not true,” the big Fed said as she got to the exit. “Admit it...as soon as you knew what was going on, you wanted to see him try to drink it, didn’t you?”

Barbara half turned to look at him, then glanced at the still full cup of Kurtzman’s coffee on the table. “I plead the Fifth,” she said as she walked out of the conference room.


Chapter Three (#ufa9f3385-7a6c-5d6f-82e6-97db4716f625)

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, spotted potential trouble the moment he walked into Beck’s Cajun Café.

After his last mission, he’d decided to take a bit of R & R and had driven up to Philly to do some sightseeing around the old city. He’d joined the tour of Independence Hall, listening to a knowledgeable US park ranger engage with the crowd as he described the events leading up to the Continental Congress and the negotiating over the creating, writing and signing of the Declaration of Independence more than 240 years ago.

He hadn’t been there in several years and was surprised to find that the brick building with its clock tower, white trim and brown-shingled roof affected him more deeply than he had expected.

And why wouldn’t it? he mused on his way out of the hall. He was walking the same streets that Adams, Jefferson, Franklin and the rest of the delegates walked when they were about to bring forth this new nation. It was what he had spent most of his life fighting for, defending those ideals they’d written down so long ago as they were preparing to break away from rule by the British.

He looked at the clusters of people around him who had gone on the tour, as well, and were now drifting off to other pursuits on this crisp fall day. Young and old couples, a smattering of families, all talking and laughing and discussing what they had seen. It was good to know those ideals were still cherished by many people.

Bolan leisurely strolled down the five blocks to Reading Station, enjoying the bright sun in the cloudless sky. He couldn’t have asked for a better day to play American tourist. All that remained was to grab a bite and choose the next mission in his War Everlasting. Usually there was something on the back burner that needed attention, or sometimes he accepted a mission from Hal Brognola, if they shared a mutual goal.

Inside the market, he took a moment to breathe in the smells of the open-air stalls with their cured meats, fresh fish and aged cheeses. Those were just some of the wares on display; you could pretty much get anything you wanted from homemade fudge to locally brewed root beer.

Bolan’s plans were simple: a quick sandwich and then he’d hit the road. But as he walked up to the order counter at Beck’s Cajun Café, his trained senses noticed a young man, maybe in his midtwenties, with close-cropped, dirty-blond hair and wearing a beat-up Army jacket. He was sitting alone at a nearby table, staring at a plastic cup of water.

It was the intensity of his stare that attracted Bolan’s attention, but he was careful not to watch the young man too closely lest he spook him. As he waited for his lunch basket to be brought out, he observed the man in the reflection of the chrome napkin holder and saw him drop one hand to the right pocket of his jacket and pat something inside.

Bolan looked around—the area was crowded today, with throngs of people moving along the narrow aisles to do their shopping or have lunch. He glanced casually at the young man once more then took out his smartphone and sent a quick text.

His lunch arrived and he paid for it. He then took it and a glass of water over to the empty chair on the other side of the young man’s table. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Mind if I sit here?”

The man didn’t look up for a moment, then his head slowly swiveled to regard Bolan. For a moment the Executioner thought he might draw right then and there, and he was ready to move if the guy did. But he just gave a half-hearted shrug. “Free country.”

“That it is, that it is.” Bolan sat and picked up half of his alligator-sausage po-boy. “Have you tried this place yet? It’s fantastic.”

The young man looked around, as if trying to see if they were drawing any attention. “Not really in the mood to talk.”

“Hey, I understand. If I keep talking, I won’t be able to eat my lunch.” Bolan fell silent for a couple of minutes, chewing as he observed the guy sitting across from him. He had put both hands on the table again and now picked up the plastic cup and took a quick drink. His movements were quick, furtive—and his right hand never strayed far from his jacket pocket.

Bolan was familiar with the type, having encountered several variants during his long career. The majority often wound up in the military and then, if that didn’t address their need—which it often did—they usually entered private military contracting to continue doing what they thought they needed to do to pacify themselves.

He thought this man hadn’t gotten as far, for whatever reason. That didn’t make him any less capable of sowing violence here, and Bolan would have to make sure to handle him carefully.

At this range, there were at least a dozen ways he could incapacitate the man, from rendering him immobile on one end of the spectrum to leaving him a corpse on the other end. But he hoped none of that would be necessary.

Bolan finished the first half of his sandwich and then nudged the plastic basket holding the other half toward the man. “Whew, getting full. Sure you don’t want any?”

“Hey, man, what’re you trying to do?” The man’s voice got louder toward the end of the sentence and he bowed his head and tried to look inconspicuous. “What do you want with me? Why are you doing this?”

Time to lay the cards on the table. “Because I think you’re getting ready to make a terrible mistake and I don’t want you to,” Bolan replied.

The young man’s head came up at that and he stared at Bolan, his right hand edging toward that pocket. “What? You a cop?”

“Not at all.” Bolan raised his left hand slightly off the table in a calming gesture—but also ready to grab the guy’s hand if necessary. “Just a concerned citizen who doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt today.”

A chattering family brushed by—a father and mother with three children all under twelve years old—on their way to the Mennonite bakery at the west end of the market. Bolan watched him watch them, ready to spring if he tried anything. But the man’s hand was still outside his pocket. Everyone was still safe...for now.

“You say you’re not a cop. What are you, private security? Military?”

“I was in the military, a while ago,” Bolan replied. He pointed at the jacket. “You?”

The man looked away. “Couldn’t...couldn’t pass the physical.” He glared down at his jacket. “This is from a goddamn thrift store.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, I probably couldn’t pass it either now.” That was a bald-faced lie; even today, Bolan could run any recruit into the ground if he had to—and just about any fully trained soldier, too. But this wasn’t about bragging rights. This was about making some kind of connection, no matter how small.

“Story of my life,” the man said. “Didn’t finish high school, figured why would I need it, I’m going into the Army. Only they didn’t want me, either. Now I’m just fucked.”

“So, go back to school. Get your GED, go to tech school. You seem able, you seem smart—except regarding what you came here to do, that is.”

“Oh yeah? What do you know? You don’t know anything about me!” The man’s voice rose again and he clamped down on his emotions with an effort.

“Okay, I’m sorry. That was unnecessary,” Bolan said, both hands up now.

“I’ve been looking for a job for eighteen months!” the man seethed, lowering his head again. “No one wants to hire me, not even as a busboy. I’m broke, been living on the streets for the past two weeks. I don’t know anyone here and I have no family. I’m...just...”

“Alone,” Bolan finished. “I get it. You feel like no one in the world cares about you, no one knows you exist. That if you were to die tomorrow, and disappear from this earth, no one would notice, no one would care, right?”

“Yeah...yeah,” he agreed, lifting his head to spear Bolan with his gaze. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

“And if you have to feel that way every day, then by God you’re going to make these people all around notice you, one way or the other, right?”

“Damn straight! For once they’ll have to notice me! They won’t be able to look away, to speed up as they walk past me! They won’t have a choice anymore!”

The man was hunched over the table now, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into his jacket. Bolan noticed a couple of bystanders looking as if they wanted to help, but he waved them off with a small shake of his head.

He sat there silently, waiting until the man’s quiet cries had died down. “What’s your name?”

“It doesn’t matter—nothing matters!” he replied.

“Yes, it does,” Bolan said. “Right here, right now, you matter. You have the power to make the choice that determines what happens here in the next few minutes. Either you leave that gun in your pocket, eat the rest of the sandwich in front of you and start living the rest of your life, or you pull the gun out and start shooting these people around you who don’t know you and never will. They’ve never done anything to hurt you, but you will impact their lives in ways they will never understand, but spend the rest of their lives trying to—at least those who survive will. But in the end, you won’t be remembered in the way you want—you’ll just end up as another statistic in a year filled with them, then pushed off the television and the front page as someone else does something that makes everyone forget about you all over again—forever.”

The man’s eyes had grown wide as Bolan talked. But his hand had stayed on the table. The Executioner leaned forward a bit, pinning him with the full weight of his ice-blue stare.

“But I don’t think you want to do that. I think you were sitting here, psyching yourself up in an attempt to go through with it. But deep down, I don’t think you truly want to do this.” He pushed the basket a bit farther across the table. “Go on, eat.”

The man looked down at the sandwich, then up at him again, and said something under his breath.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” Bolan replied.

“My name’s Bob,” the young man replied. With a shuddering sigh, he reached for the sandwich and dug in with huge bites, wolfing it down like he was starving.

Only when both of his hands were occupied did Bolan signal to the pair of uniformed Philadelphia police officers who had arrived a minute ago and were standing as inconspicuously as they could at the end of the aisle.

“Bob,” he said, removing a card from his jacket pocket, “you’re going to have to go with these officers now.”

Bob looked up with a start at the police. “What? What do you mean?”

“Listen to me.” Bolan held his gaze again. “You have to surrender your weapon and go with them. When you get the chance—” he held out the card “—call this number on the back. Don’t call a lawyer, don’t call anyone else, just call this number, and the person who answers will take care of things for you. It’s going to be all right.”

“O-okay.” Bob nodded, a smear of po-boy sauce hanging on the corner of his mouth.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to stand up and put your hands on the table,” one of the officers instructed him.

Bob looked at Bolan, who nodded. “Go ahead. Things will work out, I promise.”

“Sir, we’ll need you to stick around for a few minutes to get a statement,” the second cop said to him.

“Unfortunately, Officers, I have an appointment that requires my attention,” Bolan said as he handed them a similar card. “But if you contact the people at this number, they will be sure to straighten this all out.”

“But we need your name at least,” the cop protested.

“No, you don’t,” the soldier said over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “I’m just a concerned citizen who happened to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”


Chapter Four (#ufa9f3385-7a6c-5d6f-82e6-97db4716f625)

Twenty-three hours later, Mack Bolan stepped off the Airbus A380 and into the terminal at Melbourne International Airport. He was dressed in navy chinos, a lightweight, tan sport coat and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. A small carry-on was slung over his shoulder. He claimed his bag at the carousel, cleared customs and headed to the exit area.





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