Don Pendleton - Hazard Zone

Bolan did a full running roll to get out of the way as a machete glinted in the moonlight.

“Got to kill you,” the heavily accented voice said. “For the Obeah Man.”

Bolan kept moving and came up with the Desert Eagle in his hand. He needed someone left alive who could talk, so he fired low, blowing out the man’s kneecap.

The posse member screamed and went down, and Bolan immediately turned back to the driveway, hoping to catch up to his target. But the car kicked up gravel as it peeled away, and he got only a glimpse inside—enough to see that the Obeah Man was getting away.

Bolan walked back to the man screaming on the ground and kicked the machete out of reach. “We need to have a talk.”

“Screw you!” the man muttered.

“It’s a start,” the Executioner said. “But I’m looking for something a little more informative.”

The Executioner ®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Everyone has his superstitions. One of mine has always been when I started to go anywhere, or to do anything, never turn back or to stop until the thing intended was accomplished.

—Ulysses S. Grant

1822–1885

Each mission has its challenges, and the path to resolution is never predictable. But regardless of the hurdles, I promise to always follow through until every last enemy is taken care of…one way or another.

—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

“Shiver shot!” everyone screamed at once, laughing and giggling.

Bastiene “Spook” Durene smiled at the group of college students seated around the table, while the young woman to his right blushed. For their evening entertainment, they’d chosen a popular drinking game called Suicide Kings, and with some subtle manipulation of the cards, he’d drawn the King of Spades.

They were far too drunk to realize he’d been stacking the deck all night, moving the game to the outcome he desired, while ensuring his own sobriety. There was too much to accomplish this night to allow himself to become inebriated. Bastiene pointed a long finger at the woman, then picked up a thin wedge of lime from the bowl on the table. “You,” he said, pitching his voice low enough so that only she could hear him.

“Me,” she said, blushing again as he placed the lime between her lips. She grasped it between her teeth.

He leaned closer, then slowly ran his tongue along her neck. She shivered and he smiled once more, hiding his grin beneath a long curl of her hair. Everything was going according to plan. He reached for the saltshaker and tossed a few shakes at the damp line he’d put on her neck, then he licked it clean, drank off the shot of tequila and moved to her lips. He took the lime from her mouth into his, turning it into a deep kiss.

“Mmm,” he whispered against her neck as the kiss ended. “I be bettin’ you glamity tastes even finer.” Bastiene purposely used the Jamaican accent and slang she and her friends expected, though he could, and often did, speak perfect English.

“Glamity?” she asked, giggling.

“I be showin’ you soon,” he said. “And you be showin’ me.”

The young woman laughed and leaned away. Her name was Amber Carson. Tall and seductive, she had a body that would make any frat boy her willing slave. She pushed a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder as she moved the shot glasses out of the way. So far, she’d already had six shots of from the large bottle of tequila. This night, all his work would pay off. This was Amber’s fourth trip to Jamaica, and each time, he’d made a point of meeting her, getting to know her a little bit better. He tried not to laugh as she even now had to puzzle over the true meaning of his words.

He watched as she grasped what he meant—that she would taste good in her most private of places—then openly grinned as her blush deepened even more. “Maybe,” she said, laughing and pushing him away. “And maybe not! First I’ve got to get something to eat!”

“Then let’s get you something to eat,” he said, gesturing at the nearby buffet table that was loaded with food.

Her chair scraped the floor as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “Deal me out,” she said. “It’s food or puke, and I’m voting with my feet.”

Everyone laughed again and waved her off as she headed to the buffet. Bastiene followed closely behind her. In the times she’d been here, he’d learned a great deal about her. Her father was a U.S. senator, but before that, he’d built a pretty sizable fortune in various types of mining. She was obviously spoiled—how many young women got to spend their downtime at a private resort in Jamaica—but he also knew she was just a year away from finishing her undergraduate degree in international law in the top ten of her class. He’d even overheard her talking with her friends about graduate school and someday working in a U.S. Embassy somewhere overseas.

With her connections, such a dream would be attainable. If Bastiene had any truly compassionate feelings at all, he might feel a little sad that her dream would never come true. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t feel much compassion for anyone, let alone a spoiled little rich girl who was merely one cog in a much bigger plan. The world was filled with young women like her, and one more or less would make no difference.

The Goldshore Villas Resort was a custom-built haven for the rich and the privileged. The private condominium community was especially popular this time of year, when wealthy kids from the U.S. came to Montego Bay for spring break. With private hot tubs and lots of hidden paths for secret trysts, it was the perfect place to escape the notice of overprotective parents and the prying eyes of paparazzi that hounded them in the States. For this trip, Amber had brought a half-dozen friends with her, and they lived it up in a style that would make most of the other students in Jamaica for the weeklong party green with envy. There was plenty of booze, mountains of food and enough ganja to keep everyone happily stoned. When they weren’t playing in the surf or lying on the beach, they were dancing and partying and having sex.