Armed Response
POWER PLAYFunded by an American oil company, a rogue general sets out to stage a coup in the drought-stricken Republic of Djibouti. Once the man's soldiers have forced the region into civil unrest and assassinated the political leaders, he intends to take control and oust America from its only sub-Saharan military base.That's the plan. A plan Mack Bolan must put a stop to. Joined by a burned-out CIA agent and an aid worker, Bolan targets the US financier and the mercenaries they're bringing into the country. Hunted by the police and the army and targeted by assassins, the Executioner won't stop until the general and his collaborators face their retribution.
Читать Armed Response онлайн беплатно
POWER PLAY
Funded by an American oil company, a rogue general sets out to stage a coup in the drought-stricken Republic of Djibouti. Once the manâs soldiers have forced the region into civil unrest and assassinated the political leaders, he intends to take control and oust America from its only sub-Saharan military base.
Thatâs the plan. A plan Mack Bolan must put a stop to. Joined by a burned-out CIA agent and an aid worker, Bolan targets the US financier and the mercenaries theyâre bringing into the country. Hunted by the police and the army and targeted by assassins, the Executioner wonât stop until the general and his collaborators face their retribution.
A crack rent the air
The unexpected noise came from behind the Executioner. He turned his head quickly to witness the black canopy opening, then checked the altimeter on his right wrist.
The parachute was deploying too early.
An invisible hand grabbed Bolan by his neck and jerked him into an upright position, his head snapping backward. His hands flew automatically to the risers that would enable him to gain some semblance of control in his descent. They werenât there, and his terminal velocity hadnât significantly decreased.
Bolan looked up and cursed. The black parachute, all three hundred and seventy square feet of it, had collapsed and become entangled in itself. Bolan plummeted toward the ground.
Completely out of control.
Armed Response
Don Pendleton
Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life; you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies, and your right hand delivers me.
âPsalms 138:7
Threaten the innocent, and I will threaten you. Take an innocent life, and I will take yours. Steal what is not yours, I will reclaim it. No place is dark enough to hide from my wrath.
âMack Bolan
Dedicated to members of the Red Cross, who leave their homes and families at a momentâs notice to assist those who have lost everything
Djibouti City, Djibouti,
Horn of Africa
Air-conditioning.
Peter Douglas stood in the foyer of the Waverley Hotel and breathed deeply, ignoring the chaos around him along with the dust and dirt that stuck to his sweat-stained face. The temperature outside was already at an unbearable level, while the foyer was an oasis of comfort.
Douglas listened to his partner coughing next to him, trying to adjust to the temperature difference as quickly as possible. Yes, air-conditioning had to be one of manâs greatest inventions and he briefly wondered how the hotel kept it running during these troubled times. But only briefly, only out of curiosity. In reality he didnât want to know and vowed to return to the Waverley as often as possible.
This day, however, it was business and information that brought the two CIA agents to the uptown hotel on the edge of the Plateau de Serpent, the more luxurious end of Djibouti City, if one could say that living in a famine- and drought-stricken region could in any way be luxurious. Douglas took another deep breath, removed his sunglasses and surveyed his surroundings, wondering if his newly assigned partner, Peter Davies, was doing the same. What a joke that was. Somebody at Langley had to have been having a laugh at the time. Peter and Peter, the washed-out, veteran has-been and the rookie. Letâs put them together in the hellhole of the Horn of Africa and see what happens. Assholes.
The hotel foyer was a chaotic jumble of humanity and equipment. Sports bags and other paraphernalia were piled up against the wall as aid workers and journalists milled around, waiting for rides out of the city to the refugee camps. People were shouting at one another and at the staff behind the reception desk, demanding to know where they were supposed to go. Didnât the staff know who they were?
Douglas recognized one of the people, a journalist from CNN who thought that Douglas worked for the US Consulate as an aid adviser. He gave a quick nod to the journalist before moving on to survey the rest of the people. Beside him Davies was still busy brushing the dust out of his loose-fitting white shirt and beige cargo pants, besides running his fingers through his hair, mumbling about the heat and how hot it was and how unfair it was that they had to stand in line and be searched, not once but twice. The first search by the Djiboutian military who manned the checkpoint outside, supposedly to protect the hotel and foreigners and then by the facilityâs private security, who didnât trust the military as far as they could throw them. That had taken more than an hour, an hour standing in the searing sun at ten in the morning. Douglas was grateful for the bottle of water that he had brought with him, a bottle that one of the soldiers had wanted to confiscate, but instead had chosen to accept the dollar bills in Douglasâs hand. Dollars could buy food for the family; a bottle of water would go only so far. So, they had passed through both checkpoints and now stood in the beehive of activity. Douglas figured that many of the aid workers were new on the ground, having arrived maybe yesterday, hence all the baggage scattered around. They would be moving out shortly, into the heat, the desperation, the misery of a dying population.
