Don Pendleton - Cartel Clash

The man behind the machine gun hadn’t known what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t to have a friendly gun turned on him. Bolan raked the Jeep from front to back, bullets punching into the hood and windshield. The driver jerked back, his chest and head pulverized by the continuous blast of automatic fire.

The Jeep swerved and ran on for yards before the engine stalled and it rattled to a stop. The Executioner hammered at it until the gas tank’s contents caught a spark and erupted in a boiling surge of flame.

The surviving traffickers had begun to pull themselves together for a concerted rush at Bolan’s vehicle, but the Executioner swung the barrel of his weapon back on line and inflicted more damage. Under his relentless fire, the men went down hard, bodies bloodied and torn.

Bolan’s finger released the trigger and the chatter of the machine gun ceased. All that remained was the moaning of the wounded. The dead held their peace.

The Executioner knew the clock was ticking. Though the numbers were still falling, he knew without a shadow of doubt there would be others.

How long he might hold them back was anyone’s guess.

The Executioner ®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I sure as hell won’t.

—George S. Patton

1885–1945

No matter how long and bloody the conflict, the drug war has to be faced head-on. Those engaged in the trafficking of narcotics have no scruples. No conscience. Their victims do not concern these people. All they see are the dollars their foul product earns. If we are to engage, our resolve has to be unshakable and our tactics as ruthless as theirs.

—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.

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Border Country, Texas

“It never ceases to amaze me,” Preacher said, “how ingenious folk can be when it comes to making things that do harm.”

He was fingering a strand of the razor wire that stretched across the tract of land where Texas met Mexico. It ran in an unbroken line east to west, a man-made barrier cutting across the invisible border.

Choirboy, his partner, nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze to the barely moving figure spread-eagled across the wire. The man’s earlier struggles had slowed imperceptibly until he was almost motionless. His initial twisting and turning had caused countless cuts and gashes in his naked flesh, and he was torn and bloody.

“No question it ain’t doin’ him any favors,” he said.

Preacher shaded his eyes as he glanced skyward. The sun was directly overhead. Hot and bright. The man on the wire was unprotected and unable to save himself from what was to come. Preacher didn’t figure on more than a couple of hours.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Something cool in a long glass is my choice.”

They turned and walked to the 4x4 parked close by. Choirboy drove, turning the vehicle in the direction of the dirt road roughly two miles away. From there a twenty-minute ride would bring them to the main highway.

Preacher took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He listened as the number rang out. When it was answered, he recognized the voice immediately.

“She’s done,” Preacher said.

“Fine. The rest of your fee will be transferred by morning.”

“Hell, I wasn’t calling about that. Just to let you know the problem has been resolved.”

“Okay.”

The call over, Preacher put away his phone and turned on the radio. The station was local, playing some country and western.

“Now that is nice,” Choirboy said.

“It is so, too,” Preacher said. “Push that pedal down, son, I’m getting real thirsty.”

THE MAN LEFT BEHIND on the razor wire took another hour to die. The savage beating he had received before being thrown on the barrier had weakened him already. He had two broken arms, broken ribs and a bad fracture in his left leg. The deep wounds inflicted by the steel razor barbs had accelerated his loss of blood, and the dehydrating and burning effect of the overhead sun hastened his death.

It was another full day before the body was discovered by a border patrol team. Hardened though they might have been by the things they had witnessed, the two-man team was shocked at the brutality of the violence that had led to the man’s death. A department chopper was called in, and after the body had been recovered it was flown to the closest medical center where an autopsy was carried out and the task of identifying the dead man was initiated.

It took only a couple of hours for fingerprint and dental ID to confirm who the man was: Don Manners, a six-year veteran of the DEA. During the six months preceding his murder, Manners had been operating undercover, working his way into the drug cartel headed by Benito Rojas and his American partner, Marshal Dembrow. Three days earlier Manners had managed to communicate with his superiors about an incoming arms shipment to the Rojas Cartel. Although he had not managed to pass on the finer details, Manners had reported that, along with conventional weapons, Rojas had negotiated the purchase of a couple of mobile, high-end missile units. There was nothing in Manners’s report that told when and where the consignment was due, but he spoke of a Russian supplier.

The DEA, despite this intel, was still helpless. If the ordnance was coming into Mexico, it was out of their jurisdiction, and they could do nothing except stand by and imagine Rojas taking great pleasure in his latest move against the U.S. authorities.