Don Pendleton - Battle Cry

Dark Waters

A group of homegrown Scottish terrorists guns down an American businessman in the name of their cause—free Scotland from England, whatever the cost. But something more sinister lurks below the surface, and Mack Bolan is called in to stop them before they strike again.

There is only one way to bring this group to its knees—destroy whoever is funding them. But before justice can be served, Bolan will have to penetrate the benefactor’s heavily guarded fortress overlooking Loch Ness.

Whatever the risks, this band of extremists and their puppet master must fall, and the Executioner is determined to be the last man standing.

A shotgun blast shattered the banister

The Executioner ducked out of sight as more bullets peppered the walls and ceiling overhead.

Barging through the first door on his right, he found himself inside what looked like a guest room. Directly opposite the doorway where he stood, a sliding door opened onto a narrow balcony that faced the yard and street beyond. It was a drop of twenty feet, and then a run of twenty yards across the lawn. He would be wide open to the shooters in the house—and any who were quick enough to follow him.

One step at a time.

Bolan kicked the bedroom door shut, locked it and crossed to the window. He opened it and waited for the angry voices to resume from the hallway. If they went straight, he had a chance to make the drop unnoticed. But if they searched room by room…

The doorknob jiggled, and Bolan stitched a double 3-round burst across the paneling, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain. A second later, he was on the balcony, one leg across the rail.

As small-arms fire ripped through the room’s door and eastern wall, Bolan took his leap of faith.

Battle Cry

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In the mind and nature of a man a secret is an ugly thing, like a hidden physical defect.

—Isak Dinesen 1885–1962 Last Tales

Some secrets are best left buried, with the men who keep them.

—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

Epilogue

Prologue

Glasgow, Scotland: 9:18 a.m.

Galen Lockhart checked his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Milgauss watch and discovered that, against all odds, he was ahead of schedule. His hangover was fading slowly, and he knew it was a mere illusion that he still heard echoes of the music that had hammered him the previous night for hours, at the Barrowlands. After his steaming shower, there was no way he could still smell What’s-her-name’s perfume.

What was her name? Something vaguely exotic, he recalled. Finela or Grizela? Maybe Annabella?

Screw it.

She’d been gone when Lockhart had received his jarring wake-up call from the Hilton Glasgow’s concierge. His wallet was still intact, and that was all that mattered. If he hurt a little here and there, it only meant they’d had a damn good time.

“A bonny day, this is,” his guide declared.

Lockhart had never seen Craig Stewart when he wasn’t smiling. Could it be some kind of surgical enhancement? Maybe he’d had a nip-tuck in the cheek muscles to lift the corners of his mouth in perpetuity?

Or was he just another jolly Scot?

Whatever, he was right about the day. Bright sunshine and a clear blue sky over the city, as their limo rolled along Cathedral Street toward Stirling Road. From there, it would be out of Glasgow proper, into Springburn, where the ground breaking was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock.

The factory would mark SenDane’s first move outside the States. Lockhart had bucked the tide of outsourcing as long as possible, but now the time had come to ride the wave, before he wound up drowning in red ink. And if the move got him some good publicity, well, what was wrong with that?

“Your parents must be proud,” Stewart said through his smile.

His ancestors had gambled on a one-way ticket to America during the twenties, started out in New York City but wound up in Philadelphia and prospered there. Each generation built on what the last had done, took full advantage of technology as it evolved and learned to play the games that made success, if not a lead-pipe cinch, at least a reasonable expectation.

“They’ll be here for the grand opening,” Lockhart replied. “Next June, if we don’t run afoul of any snags.”

“You’ll be snag-free,” Stewart assured him. “Everything’s been taken care of, top to bottom.”

Meaning politicians, unions and whatever else might slow construction if the wheels weren’t greased with cash. Once they were up and running, Lockhart would recoup his bribes in spades, but at the moment, every penny counted.

“The Lord Provost is coming?” Lockhart asked.

“Aye,” Steward said. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world. And we’ve got five out of the seven MPs coming in.”

“Sounds good.”

“A bonny day,” Steward repeated. “Everybody happy as a pig in shite.”

“WE’RE IN THE SHITE if anything goes wrong,” Patrick Whishart said, huddled in the backseat of a blue Ford Focus stolen from the long-term parking lot at Glasgow International Airport, its license plates switched with a junker from a Paisley wrecking yard.

“So, don’t let anything go wrong, then,” Bobby Tennant answered from the shotgun seat, not bothering to turn and face Whishart. “We do the job and get the hell away. All right?”

“He’s got no cover, then?” Hugh Ferguson inquired from the backseat.

“To watch him dig a hole?” Tennant was scornful. “Just the copper you see sittin’ over there.”

One uniform sat inside his panda car, watching reporters square away their cameras and microphones. The VIPs hadn’t arrived yet, but they would be turning up within the next few minutes if they meant to start the show on time.

And if they didn’t, Tennant’s team would wait.

Reaching between his knees into a paper shopping bag, Tennant withdrew a Sterling L2A3 submachine gun and a curved double-column magazine holding thirty-four rounds of 9 mm Parabellum hollowpoint rounds. Keeping a cold eye on the policeman in his car, Tennant snapped the magazine into the SMG’s receiver and racked a round into the chamber.