Chain Reaction
Elite 8th Wing pilot Celene Jur was taken captive after a mysterious device temporarily disabled her ship's controls. Three solar months later, when Celene receives intel on the man who built the device, she's ready to get the bastard.Only problem is, the higher-ups think her mission partner should be Nils Calder, a tech-head who can understand the disabling device. The attraction between them is electric, but Celene needs a soldier who can watch her back as she exacts her revenge.Nils knows his department is nicknamed NerdWorks. Pilots like Celene think the closest tech geeks come to combat is all-night Nifalian chess tournaments. But behind the NerdWorks insignia on his sleeve Nils is an able fighter, ready to prove himself and gain Celene's trust.The desire between them is unexpected, but with the fate of thousands hanging in the balance, the hotshot pilot and the tech genius must succeed in their mission–no matter the cost.43,000 words
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When a Stony Man Farm nemesis is suspected in the death of two FBI agents, Mack Bolan gets called into action. The last time Bolan crossed paths with the shadowy criminal organization, heâd annihilated their operations in North Korea. Now the group has brokered a deal that would send weapons-grade uranium to Iran in exchange for a cache of stolen diamonds.
An FBI task force has been working the case for months, but it appears their team is compromised. They need a free agent, someone on the outside who can find the leak and complete the mission. Joining forces with a field operative, Bolan sets off on a shattering cross-continental firefight. Bolan has no choice: he must destroy the criminal conspiracy behind the threat. Once and for all.
Bolan left the cockpit and moved quickly along the cargo area.
Mitchell was pressed against the side of the fuselage. As Bolan reached her, he felt the plane sideslip. The nose began to drop, the aircraft starting to veer off course. They needed to get out fast.
âNow,â he snapped and saw Mitchellâs eyes shining bright. Fear. Her face was white, drained of blood.
She reached out and slid her hands through the straps across his chest, gripping tightly. Bolan grabbed the door release handle and activated it.
As the slipstream caught the edge of the door it was dragged free, swinging back against the exterior fuselage. Bolan felt the powerful drag of air tearing at them. He didnât fight it, simply let his body fall free.
The slipstream caught them and they were flung away from the plane, bodies helpless as they fell, turning over and over. Bolan heard Mitchellâs scream of pure terror. He concentrated on clearing the aircraft as it wheeled over, free from any control, and then he sensed its bulk swinging overheadâ¦.
Chain Reaction
Don Pendleton
When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers.
âProverbs 21:15
I do what I do not for personal gain, but for true justice. My war is against those who turn their back against civilized society for their own ends.
âMack Bolan
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The big Desert Eagle boomed as the black-clad woman fired twice. Her shots forced Mack Bolan to duck, giving her a few seconds to make a grab for the bag on the table. She caught hold of it in her left hand, pulling it with her as she fired again at Bolan before making a direct run for the window.
The Executioner pushed upright, bringing his submachine gun into target acquisition.
The woman had covered her face with her right arm as she hit the glass. It shattered as she burst through it, long legs powering her forward.
Bolanâs finger stroked the trigger. The P-90 fired its remaining rounds before it locked on empty.
The dark-clad figure twisted to one side as a single slug clipped her left arm. Her grip on the bag slackened and it fell free, hitting the frame of the window and dropping back inside the room.
Then she was gone, in a shower of glass fragments and splintered window frame, landing outside. It seemed she was about to fall but with a supreme effort she righted herself and vanished from sight.
By the time Bolan reached the window she was almost out of sight, dodging between the parked cars. Bolan had other priorities. If he hadnât, he would have pursued her to find out who she was and the nature of her involvement with the criminal group he knew only as Hegre.
Jack âBoomerâ Rafferty, six foot three and powerfully built, released a string of colorful curses as he worked the wheel of the massive diesel truck and swung it off Route N87. Dust boiled out from beneath the huge tires of the Kenworth âroad trainâ truck as Rafferty took the rig along the soft shoulder, red dust clouding in its wake. Air brakes hissed as the assembly came to a halt. Rafferty pulled on the handbrake and sat back, still cursing to himself. He cracked open the door and hauled his bulk off the seat and out of the cab. As he hit the ground, he felt the blast of superheated air wrap around him. The forty-five-year-old Australian native, his exposed skin burned brown by constant exposure to the sun, still found the extremes of Australian weather challenging. Right now he was also frustrated by the double-blowout in a pair of his rigâs rear tires. He expressed his anger by kicking out at the offending wheels. Both tires on the right-hand set at the rear of his rig were flat, the side walls shredded. Rafferty had never seen the like of this damage before; blowouts were not unheard of, but the extent of the damage to the rubber gave him the impression that someone had deliberately tampered with the tires.
