Don Pendleton: Throw Down

Dead Man’s Switch

Armed with weapons of mass destruction, three anti-American groups prepare to unleash a deadly war against the United States. Mack Bolan is sent in to stop the attack before the killing can begin. And he knows every second counts. There’s only one problem: the weapons are hidden in different locations around the world.

With millions of innocent lives at stake, Bolan has no choice but to accept the help of an ex-Hezbollah member who claims to have insight into the terrorists’ plans. Keeping one eye on the informant and the other on disarming the threat, the Executioner knows it’s time for him to do some massive destruction of his own.

The Executioner was a micro-second behind the bomber

The terrorist squeezed the trigger, and Bolan heard the hammer fall on an empty pistol.

Wasting no time, he sent a trio of rounds into the man’s face, knocking him against the shattered stained-glass windows like a spineless rag doll.

All the terrorists at the back of the chapel were now dead. And yet the danger was far from over. Bolan watched as the detonator fell from the bomber’s lifeless fingers to the tiled floor, skidding several feet before hitting the wall and bouncing back a few inches.

His Beretta in his right hand, he dove across the room, counting off the seconds as he flew through the air.

One thousand one...

Bolan hit the floor and snatched the detonator in one swift motion.

One thousand two...

He saw a series of buttons, but only one was illuminated. Did that mean it was the button that would halt the detonator or...? The Executioner had to make a lightning-fast decision. He had to take the chance.

Don Pendleton

Throw Down

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.

—Sun Tzu

In every war, you must know your enemy, be cautious of your allies and never go against your gut—it is what will keep you alive.

—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.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jerry VanCook for his contribution to this work.

Contents

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

PROLOGUE

February 20, 2003

The Iraqi dictator stared at the screen of his computer as he waited for the security program to kick in. He knew he was about to experience the most important online conference he had ever had. In fact, it was probably the most important meeting of any sort he had ever taken part in.

A moment later, the screen divided into thirds. First to come into focus was the left-hand side, where the Iraqi saw the face of Mohammed Parnian sitting at his desk in Damascus. Parnian was the Syrian president and, like the Iraqi, a Sunni Muslim. But he was of the Alawi sect, who approached the Creator directly rather than through angels or Muslim saints.

The Iraqi president hated the man. But at least he was Sunni.

The middle screen became clear and a similar picture emerged from Iran. The swarthy little man behind the desk wore a light colored suit with an open collar. Hamid Bartovi was, of course, a Shiite, and the Iraqi remembered the long war he had fought against this man’s country during the latter part of the twentieth century. Neither had won, and many lives had been lost on both sides. But even though he was Shiite, he, too, was Muslim.

Finally, the right side of the screen came into focus. The man sitting behind this desk had huge jowls hanging from the sides of his jaws and black hair slicked back by a comb. He looked angry. But, the dictator reminded himself, Pancho Martinez always looked angry. His face couldn’t be used to judge his mood. Martinez, the president of Venezuela, was not a Muslim of any sort. He claimed to be Christian, but the Iraqi dictator knew that was primarily for political reasons.

If truth be known, none the leaders who had gathered for this secured video conference were particularly religious. They used religion when it was practical and discarded it when it was not. They did, however, have two things in common.

They all loved power.

And they all hated the United States of America.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Iraqi said in English—the only language all four of them spoke. “I trust things are going well for you.”

“As well as can be expected,” Bartovi said. “Under the current circumstances.”

“Things are quiet at the moment,” Parnian said.

“All is well here,” Martinez reported. “Particularly compared to you and your country.”

The Iraqi sat back. “Yes,” he said. “These are dark times for us. The U.S. invasion is inevitable, I believe.”

“And you can never win such a war,” Parnian said. “You must face that fact.”

“That fact, as you put it,” the Iraqi admitted, “is exactly why I have called this meeting.” He paused to take in a long breath, scratching his clean-shaven chin as he did so. “I must go into hiding, I am afraid.”

“A wise choice,” Bartovi said. “But for how long?”

“I do not know,” the Iraqi said. “But if the United States is true to form, they will take over my country, claim victory, set up some puppet regime and then go home when their citizens grow tired of losing American lives. It could be a matter of months. Then again, it might be years.”

“Vietnam taught them nothing,” Martinez said. “They are still quick to stick their nose into the business of other nations. But they lack the resolve to stay in place long enough to achieve their beloved democracy.” The Venezuelan curled his lips in distaste.

“They believe democracy should be forced upon the entire world,” Bartovi proclaimed. “Even nations that have no desire for it. In that sense, they are as bad as the Soviet Union used to be in spreading communism.”

“We can spend all day discussing politics if you like,” Parnian said. “But it will do nothing to help our friend in Iraq.” This time, it was the word friend that caught the dictator’s ear. It seemed forced from the Iranian’s lips. The Iraqi knew they were friends only in their opposition to the Western superpower.