Don Pendleton - Code Of Honor

The pain from the wound in his arm was starting to burn fiercely, but the Executioner had suffered far worse in his time. He needed to finish Ms. Orange off.

Deciding it might be worth the risk, Bolan reached under his jacket for the SIG-Sauer.

As he did so, another lightning-fast crescent kick caught him on the side of his head. Ms. Orange followed it with a punch to the face that sent him stumbling backward.

But Bolan still had his hand on the SIG-Sauer. Stumbling back even farther than the punch had sent him, he got just enough distance so he could whip out the handgun and squeeze the trigger.

One bullet ripped through Ms. Orange’s turtleneck and splintered her rib cage. Another followed it through the shattered bone and into her heart. As her eyes widened in shock, Ms. Orange collapsed to the ground.

She was good but the Executioner was better.

The Executioner ®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

If Honour calls, where’er She points the way, The Sons of Honour follow, and obey.

—Charles Churchill

1731–1764

The Farewell

When men of honor are disrespected, it is my duty to avenge that wrong—whatever it takes. It is my code.

—Mack Bolan

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

Albert Bethke missed the cold war.

It was easier in those days. You had the United States, you had the Soviet Union, and you knew who the good guys were and who the bad guys were.

After the Berlin Wall came down, it all went to hell, as far as Bethke was concerned. Suddenly, they were working with the Soviets—or rather, the Russians, since there weren’t Soviets anymore. Bethke supposed that was how the old OSS boys felt after World War II, when they brought over Nazi scientists to help with the cold war. But this particular new world order just didn’t sit well with Bethke.

Still, he hung on with his job at the National Security Agency after twenty years in the FBI, and then had helped put the Department of Homeland Security together. But once DHS was up and running, he put in his retirement papers. He’d had enough.

Not that retirement was what he’d been expecting. At first, he did all the things he promised himself he’d get around to some day. He traveled all over the country, visiting the landmarks that he’d seen pictures and films of but never been to: the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the Southernmost Point of the U.S., and much more.

That took up three years, and then he was bored. Bethke had been both an administrator and a field agent, and he found he missed the excitement. Not enough to actually go back to work—though he had been told repeatedly by the directors at DHS that they’d take him back in a heartbeat—but enough to want to find more exciting things to occupy his time than play tourist.

So he found himself in New Paltz, New York, hiking in the Mohonk woodlands. Eventually, he planned to work his way up to proper mountain climbing, but hiking would do for now, help him rebuild his stamina. It would also get rid of the paunch that was developing. That paunch had put in appearances before, and it was always a signal to Bethke to get back into fieldwork.

Then, after a year or two of getting shot at, he’d go back behind a desk.

But that was all behind him.

It was the perfect day for a hike. It was a weekday, and it was drizzling, which meant that there was almost nobody else on the hiking trails. The few people he did see were doing the easier trails—Bethke went through the trees and up and down rocks.

The rain made it a bit more challenging, which made it that much more fun.

Bethke was dressed in brown hiking boots, white tube socks, a New York Mets baseball cap—which kept his thinning brown hair dry—cargo shorts and a plain white T-shirt, with a beige molle vest over it. Both the vest and shorts had plenty of pouches and big pockets, saving Bethke from having to bring a backpack. He carried bottles of water, power bars, his cell phone and .38 caliber bullets.

Those last were for the Smith & Wesson .38 Special in the shoulder holster that occasionally bit into his armpit as he climbed rocks or maneuvered around trees. The kids in both NSA and DHS had made fun of his “old-time” weapon. To Bethke, though, there was no point in a useless upgrade. Sure, he could go with a SIG-Sauer or a Glock or whatever the hell else they were using now, but as far as Bethke was concerned, a bullet was a bullet, and if you placed it right, it would do what you wanted it to do, regardless of what you shot it from.

In thirty years on the job, he’d never once missed what he was aiming at.

The kids would still razz him, of course, so Bethke would invite them down to the shooting range. Whoever grouped his or her shots closest would not have to pay for beer at the bar after they were off the clock. He’d even be generous and let them shoot first. They might do a decent job of grouping their shots in the chest or the head. Then Bethke would load his .38 Special and throw all six shots into the target in a perfect circle less than an inch in diameter.

Bethke never once paid for his own drink on those occasions.

He squeezed himself into a small passageway between two rocks, hoping there weren’t any bears. He really didn’t want to be in a position to have to shoot an innocent animal.

Once he made it through to the other side, he saw that a wooden ladder had been provided to get to the top of the rock. That was the end of this part of the hike, bringing him to a plateau that provided a great view of the area.

At the top was a no-longer-functional lighthouse, a few picnic tables, a public bathroom in a small stone structure, a very large rock that was sitting in the middle of the grass and mud and a spectacular view of Lake Mohonk. The mist from the clouds and rain covered the mountain like a blanket.