Fatal Combat
CUTTHROATAfter a number of civilians turn up dead from knife wounds throughout Detroit, a red flag is raised in Washington. Concerned the city has become a testing ground for low-budget, low-tech domestic terrorism, the President wants those responsible for the deaths brought down. And there is only one man who can get under the radar to do it–Mack Bolan.But the pieces of the puzzle are as intricate as the knife wounds, and everywhere Bolan turns leads to another dead end. One thing is certain: whoever is behind the killings doesn't want him around. And it seems everyone from the police department to the Mafia is in on the fight.If it's a duel to the death they want, then the Executioner is ready to battle.
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The Executioner charged from the car, a gun in each hand
To survive against such overwhelming odds required movementâhe would have to run the risk of seeking higher ground.
Holstering the Desert Eagle but keeping hold of his Beretta, Bolan grabbed the mirror extending from the rear corner of the van and pulled himself to the roof of the vehicle, flattening himself against it.
The gunmen would have his range in seconds. He drew his Desert Eagle once more, extended his arms out to each side, and began shooting from the roof of the van. The fusillade pinned the gunmen nearest to the van, striking and wounding some of them, killing still others. But there were more assassins than the soldier had realized.
The cargo van shook beneath him. Men were climbing inside. They would no doubt try to shoot him through the roof.
Bolan beat them to it. Holstering the Beretta and swapping magazines in the Desert Eagle, he aimed at the roof of the van and started pulling the trigger, walking the shots in an ever-widening pattern. Men screamed below him as bodies hit the floor of the vehicle.
He flattened himself again and spun around, shooting left and right, taking running gunmen this way and that.
It was time to move.
Fatal Combat
The Executioner>®
Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, / He bravely broached his boiling bloody breast.
âWilliam Shakespeare
1564â1616
There are those who think that killing is a game. There are men who believe the weapons in their hands make them the predators. But the sharpest weapon is the human mindâ¦and the game, when hunting predators, has no rules.
âMack 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 nameâSergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolanâs 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 societyâs every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warriorâto 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 alliesâAble Team and Phoenix Forceâwaged 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 âarmâs-lengthâ alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
1
The morning air held a tang of moisture that beaded on the windshield as the sun hit it, chasing the crisp October dawn as a pollution-laden haze took its place. Three truant high school kids paused on the sidewalk not far from the parked car, craning their necks for a better look. A uniformed Detroit police officer shooed them away, muttering something about getting to school, and the teens shot back cheerful profanities as they made themselves scarce. The cop, shaking his head, turned back to the chalk outline visible among the milling crime scene team.
There was blood everywhere.
The dried blood, thicker and darker than most civilians would or could imagine, had washed across the crags of the asphalt in an impossibly wide bloom that partially obscured the chalk outline. Solemn figures were loading the zippered body bag in the back of the medical examinerâs van. They had seen many corpses; they would be hardened to all but the most brutal of deaths.
Their grim expressions confirmed what the crimson lake of human blood had already told the man behind the wheel.
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, dropped the window on the driverâs side of the rented Dodge Charger. He put his left hand on the steering wheel and leaned forward for a better look. In his right hand, resting on his leg, was a custom-tuned Beretta 93-R machine pistol.
Satisfied with what he could see from his vantage point, Bolan turned his attention to the weapon. He ejected the well-traveled pistolâs 20-round magazine and racked the slide, catching the loose round in his palm. Then he reloaded the round, seated it and racked the slide again, nudging the weaponâs selector switch and replacing it in the leather shoulder holster he wore under his three-quarter-length black leather coat. The coat concealed both the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle he wore inside his waistband in a Kydex holster and the double-edged Sting knife he carried in a matching sheath, also in his waistband, behind his left hip, angled for a draw with either hand.
