Don Pendleton: Desert Impact

BORDER ASSAULT

The murder of several border patrol agents in a moonlight attack seems like an average Mexican cartel ambush…until the killers’ weapons turn out to be U.S. military grade. There’s a leak in the local army base, and it needs to be plugged before more ordnance trucks south—and more innocent lives are taken. Mack Bolan heads into the desert to investigate.

But when an old ally is killed in a second assault, Bolan realizes he’s underestimated the threat. Whoever is behind the attack is not only smuggling weapons into Mexico, but also building a private army. And the kingpin is intent on spreading his reign of terror into America. With an unofficial war about to break out on the border, he must plan a strategic strike to take down the empire and eliminate all its key players. And this time, for the Executioner, it’s personal.

The Desert Eagle’s booming roar filled the air

Bolan took down the two men who tried to rush his position. That left two, both of whom had taken cover on the far side of his truck, shooting wildly. Panic was a wonderful field tool.

He opened up once more, hitting each man in the lower leg. The powerful weapon all but tore limbs off at this range. He worked his way around to the far side of the truck and finished the job.

Bolan scanned the area and saw nothing but bodies. On the ground near one of them, he spotted the radio and could hear his enemy demanding information.

He picked it up and keyed the mike. “That’s just the beginning,” he told the man. “I’ll see you and Sureno real soon.” He threw the radio to the ground and moved toward the nearby group of vehicles, hoping to find some supplies for his trek across the desert.

Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps he was simply too focused on his search. Either way, Bolan didn’t see the man who’d taken shelter in the backseat of the first car he approached until he lunged forward, gun in hand.

Desert Impact

Don Pendleton

Fast is fine, but accuracy is final.

—Wyatt Earp

I’m not interested in speed for its own sake. But I will do what it takes to catch up with those who would try to outrun their own judgment.

—Mack Bolan

THE

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

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 1

The borderlands were nothing more than long stretches of desert, patches of sage and prickly mesquite trees. Old wooden fences and faded barbwire strands, and from time to time, a decent fence that some desperate rancher put up only to have it torn down by the illegals crossing everywhere but at the actual checkpoints. During the heat of the day, the sun glanced off hills and rocks, filling the arid land with shimmering illusions in the rippling heat. But the night...the night was altogether different. Under a full moon, the desert became a luminescent landscape filled with creatures on the hunt, no longer pinned down by the oppressive heat. Shadows pooled beneath rocky outcroppings and the hunting cries of owls echoed in the wind.

Colton Rivers, a field operations supervisor for the United States Border Patrol, stared out at the desert night, waiting to see if the intelligence they’d obtained was accurate. From California to Texas, some portions of the border were more porous than others. The Arizona border was Swiss cheese. He was based in Douglas, right across from Agua Prieta, Mexico, and every year the situation got worse. There was no explaining to the politicians that it wasn’t the number of officers that mattered, but the fact that a night in one of their cells was still a trip to heaven for many of the people who crossed over. Mexico was all but an undeclared war zone, and the drug lords were running most of the countryside. Sadly, fewer and fewer families were actually crossing the border in search of a better life—many families were just trying to get away. Other immigrants were drug and weapon runners—mules—and the thugs who transported people into the United States for outrageous fees.

The working life of a Border Patrol agent was getting more dangerous, too. Fewer men and women were willing to take the risks, in spite of decent pay and benefits, and of those who did, many were injured or killed every year. It wasn’t an easy job, and it was often damn thankless, but Rivers was proud to be doing it. Every time they made an arrest, it was one small step toward making the border more secure. Still, it was only a matter of time until the flood waters overwhelmed them, or worse, some terrorist found a way through the desert and into the United States with a dirty bomb. Rivers shook his head, bringing his mind back to the night’s mission.

A runner arrested two days before had told them that a large arms shipment was coming in, but Rivers was having a hell of a time believing that was the case. The full moon was practically a spotlight. A large vehicle would be far too easy to spot moving across the barren landscape.

“What do you think?” the man standing next to him asked. His name was Craig Jennings, and he was so fresh from the academy that the shine still hadn’t worn off his badge—or his face. He was surveying the desert floor through a pair of night vision goggles, a bundle of nervous energy. At thirty, Rivers felt like the old man of the group and was not as prone to get excited with every tip they were given. Too often, leads were nothing more than dead ends or even purposeful misinformation. The drug and weapon dealers on the other side of the border were many things, but the successful ones were far from stupid.

Rivers scanned the empty desert once more, and then shook his head. “I think we’ve been out here for over an hour and haven’t seen shit. Even if it was going to happen, they probably called it off on account of the moon.”