RAINING HELLFIRE
A deadly series of lightning strikes confounds experts and pits Mack Bolan against a new kind of terror that comes out of the sky. The death toll spreads as a plane loaded with innocent victims is blown apart, an office building ignites, killing hundreds, and refinery and munitions factories burst into fireballs. Whoeverâs responsible leaves no fingerprint. And the strikes continueâunpredictable, undetectable and unstoppable.
Posing as the front man of a rival terrorist organization claiming responsibility for the attacks, Bolan lures the enemyâIraqâs Republican Guardâout of the shadows. And by coaxing them to put this latest lethal incendiary weapon on the black-market auction block, traitorous old friends and reformed enemies convergeâ¦right into the center of Bolanâs crosshairs.
The wall of compressed air painfully crushed his chest
For an unknown length of time, Bolanâs universe was filled with deafening chaos, every hair on his body standing stiff, the fillings in his teeth growing uncomfortably hot.
That was when he realized that the magnetic field of lightning had to be creating eddying currents in anything made of metal.
Quickly Bolan tossed away his guns, throat mike, transceiver, spare ammo and knives. Yanking a grenade out of a pocket, he could feel how warm it was and whipped it as far away as possible. Then he tossed the remaining ones.
But the last grenadeâs detonation pounded the Executioner hard, ripping apart his clothing and peppering him with hot shrapnel....
When I say that terrorism is war against civilization, I may be met by the objection that terrorists are often idealists pursuing worthy ultimate aimsânational or regional independence, and so forth. I do not accept this argument. I cannot agree that a terrorist can ever be an idealist, or that the objects sought can ever justify terrorism. The impact of terrorism, not merely on individual nations, but on humanity as a whole, is intrinsically evil, necessarily evil and wholly evil.
âBenjamin Netanyahu International Terrorism
Terrorists have no morals or ideals, no sense of whatâs right or whatâs wrong. Any end justifies the means. One thing has always been crystal clearâsomeone has to stop them. Thatâs where I come in.
âMack Bolan
PROLOGUE
New York City, New York
Following a rumble of thunder, lightning flashed across the night sky, illuminating the roiling storm clouds from within like misshapen Japanese lanterns.
âGod, I hate the rain,â a passenger on the jetliner growled under his breath, sliding shut the plastic cover to block his view out the window.
âOh, sir, our aircraft is one of the safest planes in existence!â a pretty flight attendant said with a comforting smile. âWe get hit by lightning two or three times every trip, and it doesnât even damage the paint! I can assure you that there is nothing to fear.â
Completely unconcerned, the slim woman walked away to check on the other passengers.
Twenty miles ahead of the jetliner was John F. Kennedy International Airport, a glowing oasis of incandescent and halogen lights, mixing together into a whitish haze that dominated the night in open defiance of the rumbling storm.
âHowâs the traffic?â the pilot asked the navigator, keeping one hand on the yoke while reaching out to tap the glass front of a fuel gauge. The needle quivered, but didnât change position.
The curved banks of controls surrounded the three members of the cockpit crew in a rainbow of technology, while outside lightning flashed again, much closer, and then farther away.
âWeâre in the pipe,â the navigator replied, infinitely adjusting the delicate controls on her radar screen. âThereâs nothing in the sky closer than a klick.â
No other airplanes were visible because of the tumultuous summer storm, but the radar showed that the sky was full of flying metal, with an even dozen commercial jetliners steadily circling the busy airport, impatiently waiting for permission to land.
âThis must be a slow day for Kennedy,â the copilot said, keeping both hands on the yoke.
She shrugged. âPretty much so, yeah.â
âBad for them, good for us,â the pilot said, unclipping a hand mike and thumbing the transmit button. âHello, Kennedy? This is flight one-nine-four out of Oslo. Do you copy? Over.â
âThis is Kennedy Tower, one-nine-four. We hear you five-by-five.â The ceiling speaker crackled. âYouâre behind schedule. Should have been here an hour ago. Over.â
âWe hit a headwind over the Atlantic,â the pilot replied. âKennedy, could I please have an ETA?â