Don Pendleton: Payback

LAW OF THE JUNGLE

In Mexican cartel country to rescue an undercover agent, Mack Bolan arrives to find the stronghold smoked and his man missing. It’s the second failed play at the same site, where five years earlier a mission went deadly sour. This time, Bolan suspects betrayal in the highest places. And when the mission shifts from rescue to revenge, the trail extends into the corridors of Washington.

Bolan uncovers a wealthy industrialist selling arms to drug dealers to finance a daring political gambit. The billionaire has a rogue, high-level CIA official in the game and ambitions to put a puppet in the White House. With genetically enhanced supersoldiers to do his dirty work, he’s unstoppable. Until one of those soldiers dedicates his last fight to helping Bolan take down this enemy of the state who’s convinced he’s got the power to commandeer the U.S. presidency. The Executioner won’t stop until he proves him wrong.

Who the hell are these guys?

The guy with the Fu Manchu mustache turned toward Bolan and said something. The Executioner couldn’t hear, but he was able to read the man’s lips: We’re Americans. Here to assist.

The mansion shook with a series of explosions, and its interior erupted in yellow flames. The big guy with the mustache got up and raced toward the burning building, the muzzle of his weapon spitting flame.

Bolan’s senses were returning. He glanced around and saw that Cepeda had been placed next to him. The soldier reached over and placed his palm on top of the dressing to apply pressure. It was already sodden with the captain’s blood.

Sounds of an explosion ripped through the night. More flames shot out of the mansion, and Bolan saw the new group of men, their saviors, pumping rounds into the burning structure. The cavalry had arrived, and they weren’t taking prisoners.

No one was getting out of there alive.

Time for Bolan to act.

I am concerned for the security of our great nation; not so

much because of any threat from without, but because of

the insidious forces working from within.

—General Douglas MacArthur, 1880–1964

I don’t care who the enemy is. I will always defend this

nation and her people to my last breath.

—Mack Bolan

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text LAW OF THE JUNGLE In Mexican cartel country to rescue an undercover agent, Mack Bolan arrives to find the stronghold smoked and his man missing. It’s the second failed play at the same site, where five years earlier a mission went deadly sour. This time, Bolan suspects betrayal in the highest places. And when the mission shifts from rescue to revenge, the trail extends into the corridors of Washington. Bolan uncovers a wealthy industrialist selling arms to drug dealers to finance a daring political gambit. The billionaire has a rogue, high-level CIA official in the game and ambitions to put a puppet in the White House. With genetically enhanced supersoldiers to do his dirty work, he’s unstoppable. Until one of those soldiers dedicates his last fight to helping Bolan take down this enemy of the state who’s convinced he’s got the power to commandeer the U.S. presidency. The Executioner won’t stop until he proves him wrong.

Introduction Who the hell are these guys? The guy with the Fu Manchu mustache turned toward Bolan and said something. The Executioner couldn’t hear, but he was able to read the man’s lips: We’re Americans. Here to assist. The mansion shook with a series of explosions, and its interior erupted in yellow flames. The big guy with the mustache got up and raced toward the burning building, the muzzle of his weapon spitting flame. Bolan’s senses were returning. He glanced around and saw that Cepeda had been placed next to him. The soldier reached over and placed his palm on top of the dressing to apply pressure. It was already sodden with the captain’s blood. Sounds of an explosion ripped through the night. More flames shot out of the mansion, and Bolan saw the new group of men, their saviors, pumping rounds into the burning structure. The cavalry had arrived, and they weren’t taking prisoners. No one was getting out of there alive. Time for Bolan to act.

Title Page Payback Don Pendleton

Quote I am concerned for the security of our great nation; not so much because of any threat from without, but because of the insidious forces working from within. —General Douglas MacArthur, 1880–1964 I don’t care who the enemy is. I will always defend this nation and her people to my last breath. —Mack Bolan

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

The South American jungle

Five years ago

The undergrowth rustled in the darkness about twenty yards ahead. Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, raised his fist to signal the rest of the squad to halt. The heavy foliage had made the movement almost imperceptible, but he was certain he’d seen something through his night-vision goggles. Exactly what, he wasn’t sure. An animal, perhaps? They were in the jungle, after all. Or could it have been a man? Was someone up there waiting for them? Their nighttime insertion by truck along the twisting, mountainous road and the subsequent mile-long hike had been treacherous and lengthy, but supposedly assured the element of surprise. It should have been impossible for anyone to shadow or precede them. Unless they were expected.

Bolan kept his eyes on the area ahead. There was no more movement, but it was still one more tiny crack in the ops plan that he’d been given.

The Executioner didn’t feel totally at ease with this mission. Even its tag name, Operation Cat’s Cradle, bothered him. He remembered the childhood game of looping string around your fingers. He also remembered the Kurt Vonnegut novel by the same name, with the repeating refrain, “See the cat? See the cradle?” Like characters in the book, Bolan never thought the configuration resembled a cat or a cradle.

Things hadn’t seemed quite right at the onset of this op, either. Maybe it was the degree of absolute assurance the Colombians had given them during the briefing. An overweight army colonel who looked as if he’d never missed a meal had smiled throughout the presentation, explaining first in Spanish for Captain Carlos Cepeda and his men, and then making a deferential show of adding a sentence in English for the benefit of Bolan and the two DEA agents, how perfectly crafted and secret the operation planning had been. “Un plano muy perfecto. A perfect plan,” he’d said. “Nothing can possibly go wrong.”

Bolan knew better. Something could always go wrong. Murphy’s Law had taught him that: If anything can go wrong, it will. This wasn’t the soldier’s kind of mission, and how he’d let Hal Brognola talk him into wet-nursing this Colombian army special ops team on some namby-pamby extraction detail was beyond him. If it weren’t for the two DEA agents, Chris Avelia and German Salamanca, who’d been helping the Colombian army locate the De la Noval cartel for the past ten months, Bolan would’ve declined. Avelia had assisted the soldier in a previous mission and he had come to like the kid.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees from the overwhelming heat of the day, but the humidity was still like a wet blanket. Bolan felt the sweat running down his sides and neck. And there was no letup from the ubiquitous mosquitoes. They buzzed constantly in his ears, occasionally landing on a patch of bare skin and stabbing his flesh. He felt itchy in several places. The soldier had told the rest of his team to keep their sleeves rolled down. It was hotter, but meant less exposure to the environment.