Don Pendleton - Edge Of Hell

He was in rampage mode

It was time to stop playing by the enemy’s rules, and to start doing things his way. Mack Bolan had never been the kind of man to sit back and allow the savages to assault him.

The plan was simple; one the Executioner had used countless times before.

Lean on the enemy. Lean on the enemy’s friends. Lean on the enemy’s enemies. Apply as much pressure as possible until his target popped into view.

Then drop the hammer.

MACK BOLAN®

The Executioner

#250 Warning Shot

#251 Kill Radius

#252 Death Line

#253 Risk Factor

#254 Chill Effect

#255 War Bird

#256 Point of Impact

#257 Precision Play

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#264 Iron Fist

#265 Freedom Force

#266 Ultimate Price

#267 Invisible Invader

#268 Shattered Trust

#269 Shifting Shadows

#270 Judgment Day

#271 Cyberhunt

#272 Stealth Striker

#273 UForce

#274 Rogue Target

#275 Crossed Borders

#276 Leviathan

#277 Dirty Mission

#278 Triple Reverse

#279 Fire Wind

#280 Fear Rally

#281 Blood Stone

#282 Jungle Conflict

#283 Ring of Retaliation

#284 Devil’s Army

#285 Final Strike

#286 Armageddon Exit

#287 Rogue Warrior

#288 Arctic Blast

#289 Vendetta Force

#290 Pursued

#291 Blood Trade

#292 Savage Game

#293 Death Merchants

#294 Scorpion Rising

#295 Hostile Alliance

#296 Nuclear Game

#297 Deadly Pursuit

#298 Final Play

#299 Dangerous Encounter

#300 Warrior’s Requiem

#301 Blast Radius

#302 Shadow Search

#303 Sea of Terror

#304 Soviet Specter

#305 Point Position

#306 Mercy Mission

#307 Hard Pursuit

#308 Into the Fire

#309 Flames of Fury

#310 Killing Heat

#311 Night of the Knives

#312 Death Gamble

#313 Lockdown

#314 Lethal Payload

#315 Agent of Peril

#316 Poison Justice

#317 Hour of Judgment

#318 Code of Resistance

#319 Entry Point

#320 Exit Code

#321 Suicide Highway

#322 Time Bomb

#323 Soft Target

#324 Terminal Zone

#325 Edge of Hell

Edge of Hell

Don Pendleton

The god of war hates those who hesitate.

—Euripides: Heraclidae ca. 425 B.C.

Even as I stand at the edge of hell, I will not hesitate to take action against the enemy.

—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

Epilogue

She stumbled out of the bed, sheets snarling around her feet. Her hands broke her fall, and she swore she heard something pop in one wrist, but no pain was worming its way up her arm. The high hadn’t worn off yet. The floor was cold and bare, good for mopping up ink, coffee and bloodstains.

The sheets finally released her ankles and she slithered free, pulling herself to her knees. The buzz rolling around her bloodstream wasn’t done yet, but she was already feeling the panic in her chest, and the twisting of her gut, demanding more release. She had to get dressed quickly and head back. She brushed her hand across her stomach, one fingertip finding the odd itch in her navel, all along the freshly mended flesh of some kind of scar. In her befuddled mind, she wondered what that was. She didn’t shoot in there, she shot inside her thighs, where no man would look, let alone put his mouth—at least none of the men who paid her for the company they sought.

She reached for the pile of clothes, yanking aside the man’s jacket in her rush to get to her own stuff, but she paused when she felt the weight of the wallet clump across her knee. It was heavy, which was always a good sign, and she tore it open, looking within, as if she expected to find food inside.

There was money, enough pound notes to choke a horse. She crumpled them in one hand and reached for her miniature purse. They would help her out. Trembling fingers let go of the wallet, dumping it flat on the floor, and for a moment, she feared he’d wake up.

She struggled to her feet, slipping her legs through the tiny vinyl shorts she’d bumped and ground so seductively to get the man to come to bed with her. He didn’t tell her his name, but she knew the kind of man he was, old money or some governmental import, a stiff conservative type who repressed his sexuality to the point that he was almost ready to explode. Those were the types who gave her most of her business.

She bent over double. Her stomach was sick, as if there were a solid lump of lead inside it. Her balance gave out and she grabbed the doorjamb, barking her forearm. The fresh pain cut through the haze of her dizzied brain and nausea for a few moments. Then she twirled back into the haze.

She couldn’t find her baby-T in the dark, and she didn’t want to hang around any longer. Something started to smell in the room, and her instincts told her to leave.

She grabbed her jacket and shrugged it over her shoulders, tugging it down and closed to cover her breasts. She hoped that nobody would catch her before she got home.

Home was a swirling morass of half-remembered images. Once she got some fresh air, or at least London air, into her lungs, she figured she’d feel better. Her head was pounding, and she could barely maneuver her feet into her calf-length boots. When she bent to pull the zipper up on one, she tumbled to the floor again.

Bile rose in her throat, and she spit a wad onto the floor. Vile sourness permeated her mouth, but she wasn’t sticking around even to wash it clear. She bent and yanked up the zipper on the other boot and staggered back to her feet. Pain raced through her body like a jet of flame, but she managed to make it down three flights of steps without tumbling to her death or falling and breaking a leg.