Don Pendleton: Damage Radius

They kicked up dirt and grass all around him, lodging in the tree trunk as he popped back to his feet behind the pine tree.

Bolan stared in the moonlight, following the angle of the shots back to a man who stood partially out of the guard shack, wielding an M-16.

He aimed, pulled the trigger of his gun and sent two rounds into the guard’s shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon. A look of shock covered the man’s face for an instant before Bolan squeezed the trigger again, and the man fell out of the shack onto the pavement.

Bolan leaned out from around the tree trunk and sighted down the barrel. A lone round took out the second man at the gate. The third sentry was still hiding inside the small building, covered from the waist down by concrete but visible through the glass in the top of the window.

He aimed at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. His slug struck the glass then ricocheted off with a loud whine. The window was bullet resistant—but nothing was completely bullet proof.

Bolan left the cover of the tree and raced toward the open door of the shack. The final sentry was squatting with his gun in hand, looking straight at him as Bolan fired his weapon. In the end, all of the concrete and bullet-resistant glass in the world hadn’t helped him, and the guard fell on his face just as dead as the others.

The yard grew silent. Then, in the distance, Bolan heard sirens and he knew that the fighting had raised alarms.

The Executioner had to get away. Fast.

The Executioner ®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The laws are silent in the midst of arms.

—Marcus Tullius Cicero

106 BC–43 BC

I will go around the law to catch the bad guys, if I have to. And I will break the law to stop them, if all else fails. I will do what needs to get done—whenever, wherever, however.

—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.

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

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, lowered his left elbow slightly, stopping a right jab to the ribs from his left-handed opponent. He countered with a quick right cross which was also blocked. Slowly, the two men circled, sizing each other up and looking for weaknesses in the other’s defense. A fierce left hook came suddenly toward the Executioner’s face but he ducked under it, bobbing slightly to the side. In his mind, it registered that the southpaw he faced had dropped his left shoulder before delivering the blow. As well, Bolan realized the man had telegraphed the hook the same way each time he’d tried that punch.

The left hook was obviously the man’s favored attack, and the pressure Bolan had felt when it landed on his arms told him it was powerful. Full of strength, and speed, the man could easily knock out an opponent if it landed solidly.

So, the soldier decided, it was time to set the man up and take advantage of his “tell.”

Bolan backed away slightly, letting his opponent move closer. He ducked a wild right-handed “haymaker,” then bobbed under another jab that followed it. Then, intentionally raising his left, he opened up his rib cage for the hook he hoped to draw from the other man.

It worked as if by magic.

Sweat poured from the other man’s face as he dipped his shoulder in preparation to launch the hook.

Bolan didn’t give him the chance. Stepping in swiftly, he dealt his opponent a powerful overhand right, which nailed the man squarely in the middle of the forehead. The man stumbled backward. Bolan shuffled closer again, jabbing a left into the man’s midsection, which caused him to drop both of his hands.

It was time to end this fight.

Bolan put everything he had—arm, shoulder and a twist of the right hip—into the right cross.

His opponent was out before his face hit the canvas.

Quickly, Bolan stepped forward, saw that the man was breathing, then turned toward the ropes that encircled the boxing ring. Everyone else in the gym had halted their workouts in order to watch the match, and they stared up at Bolan with a mixture of surprise and newfound respect in their eyes. Bolan walked to the edge of the ring and rested his gloved hands on the top rope.

“Okay,” he said. “I know you guys liked the former manager of this gym. I did, too. But he’s dead, and there’s nothing any of us can do about that.” He paused, then motioned toward the unconscious man on the floor. “Jake, here, challenged me because all of you wanted to know if I knew what I was doing.” He turned his head to include more men who had come to the ring on the other sides of the canvas. “Is there anyone here still wondering?” When there was no response from the spectators, Bolan went on. “Come on. I’m just getting warmed up. If there’s anyone else who wants a piece of me, now’s your chance.”

The silence that had fallen over the gym didn’t change, and no one took the Executioner up on his offer.

It soon became obvious that there would be no more challengers. “Then get back to your training, all of you,” he said. Lifting the top rope, he stepped under it before dropping to the gym’s concrete floor. Using his teeth, he untied the lace on his right glove, then pulled it free and tucked it under his arm as he went to work on the left.

As he began unlacing the other glove, Bolan’s eyes skirted the gym, taking in the men of various ages, sizes and abilities who had returned to the speed bags, heavy bags, double ended striking balls, jump ropes and other equipment. Most of them were innocent, honest fighters who were doing nothing more than trying to achieve their own personal dreams of success in the ring. But, unknowingly, they were actually part of one of the most extensive criminal organizations operating in the United States.