Don Pendleton: Lethal Diversion

HIDE AND SEEK

Terrorists have hidden a massive bomb in Detroit, but the White House and local police have no idea when and where it’s going to go off. One thing is certain, thousands will die in the explosion unless Mack Bolan can intercept the device before time runs out.

As each lead results in more dead bodies but surprisingly little intel, Bolan is convinced that this is a well-planned venture and that he and the police are mere pawns in the mastermind’s scheme. But that’s about to change. Tired of being led on a wild-goose chase and with the clock counting down, the Executioner is shifting the rules of the game—the hunter is about to become the hunted.

The door crashed to the floor, landing on top of the screaming sentry

Bolan dived through the opening, firing the Desert Eagle as he moved. His comm unit was going crazy, with the FBI teams talking over each other. The four terrorists in the middle of the warehouse had armed themselves and were shooting wildly at the shadows around them.

Bolan ran for the only cover there was—a shadowed nook beneath the stairs leading to the catwalk. He took aim at the man closest to the bomb and dropped him with a well-placed round in the hip. The remaining terrorists didn’t know where to focus their fire, and all three ran in opposite directions.

An FBI agent came through the broken doorway where Bolan had entered, and swiftly put two rounds into the chest of the man running toward him. That left two men on the floor and one on the catwalk.

Bolan scanned the metal walkway above him and spotted his target trying to pry open the window. The Executioner stealthily moved up the stairs, even as he heard the other two assailants go down in a hail of gunfire at the back of the building.

In his earpiece, the lead FBI agent said, “Stand down, everyone.” Bolan ignored the command as he crept up behind the man frantically trying to escape through the too-small window. Bolan was just a few feet behind him when the man’s senses must have told him someone was there.

The terrorist whipped around, pulling a 9 mm from his waistband. The Executioner gunned him down without hesitation, the echoes from his shot loud in the relative silence of the warehouse. “Now everyone can stand down.”

Lethal Diversion

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Dylan Garrett for his contribution to this work.

’Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.

—William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Hamlet

The devil isn’t hiding in some dark corner of the universe. He is right here on earth, burrowing into the hearts of evil men, thriving on their heinous acts. The devil is all too real—and I am his greatest threat.

—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 com-mand 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

QUOTATION “’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.” —William Shakespeare “’Tis the night—the night Of the grave’s delight, And the warlocks are at their play; Ye think that without The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they.” —Arthur Cleveland Coxe “From ghoulies and ghosties And long-leggedy beasties And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!” —Scottish saying

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

EPILOGUE

“’Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.”

—William Shakespeare

“’Tis the night—the night

Of the grave’s delight,

And the warlocks are at their play;

Ye think that without

The wild winds shout,

But no, it is they—it is they.”

—Arthur Cleveland Coxe

“From ghoulies and ghosties

And long-leggedy beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us!”

—Scottish saying

PROLOGUE

The customized fifty-foot yacht sat low in the water of Lake St. Clair, rocking back and forth with the regularity of the low-tide waves. The full moon overhead lit up the craft and the smaller vessel attached to its side, floating together several miles offshore from Grosse Point Park, Michigan, in the border waters between Canada and the United States. A dispute here might be adjudicated by one country or even both, depending on who claimed jurisdiction and had the precise GPS coordinates to make such a claim. Malick Yasim expected that the location itself might add a certain tangle to the web that was being woven around the city of Detroit.

He skillfully climbed the rope ladder onto the sailboat, taking the lead ahead of his men. Stepping onto the deck, he flinched as a floodlight blinded him momentarily. “Assalamu alaikum,” he said, “now shut that damn thing off! It’s bright enough to be seen from shore.” His Afghani accent was barely noticeable.

The light went out, and was followed by a familiar voice. “Wa alaikum assalaam. I see that Sayid sent the Mummy himself to take delivery.”

Yasim scowled at the nickname. Some called him that because they were certain his body count rivaled that of the mummies in Egypt, but Yusef liked to use it because at six foot two and bald as an egg, Malick’s resemblance to the character in the movie was almost uncanny. There was little that he could do to dissuade the usage, but after this night he suspected others would make reference to it only in regard to his body count.

He waited for his eyes to adjust and for the three men he’d brought with him to come up the ladder. “Have you traveled all this way to mock me, or did you bring the merchandise Sayid requested? We have no time for foolishness.”

Yusef stepped forward and shook Yasim’s hand, kissing him on either cheek. “Do not be so temperamental, my brother. I have succeeded as promised. Come and see.” In spite of the bulk he carried around his waist, the short man pivoted on his heels gracefully and headed below deck. Yasim followed close behind, watching the tassels on the man’s red felt tarboosh swing to and fro.