ALL BETS ARE OFF
Nine million dollars goes missing from a Vegas casino, and accountant Harry Sherman becomes the mobâs scapegoat. Shermanâs ready to spill everything to the Feds in exchange for his freedom, but his bosses are determined to shut him upâforever. Protecting the moneyman proves too much for the Justice Department, leaving only one guy for the job: Mack Bolan.
Soon, Bolanâs racing across the country to secure the fugitive Sherman before a team of hired killers catches up to him. Time is tight as every clue to the desperate manâs whereabouts leads to a dead body and puts innocent lives in the line of fire. But when it comes to justice, the Executioner always has another card up his sleeveâand heâll aim it straight at the enemy.
Bolan triggered a tri-burst through the door connecting the train cars.
Crouching, they made for the door at the far end of the car. Bolan flung it open and hustled Sherman through. They paused on the swaying, open platform between the two cars, the rattle and rumble of the train loud in their ears.
The ground swept by, a spread of green below the slope that bordered the track.
Bolan glanced back and saw armed figures moving into view. This time he held the Beretta in both hands and fired. Glass shattered. Bolan saw one man fall, and the others pulled aside. The delay would only last for seconds. He holstered the 93R and zipped up his jacket.
âYou ever jump from a moving train?â
Sherman stared at Bolan. âHell, no,â he said.
âFirst time for everything.â
Honorable actions are ascribed by us to virtue, and dishonorable actions to vice; and only a madman would conclude that these judgments are matters of opinion, and not fixed by nature.
âMarcus Tulius Cicero, 106â43 BC
There is no honor in the Mob, human vultures who prey upon the weak and the innocent, their sole purpose to make money. But there are good people who fight the good fight, and we will stand with them until our last breath.
âMack Bolan
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.
PROLOGUE
Las Vegas, Nevada
Harry Sherman knew there was a problem the moment he stepped inside Marco Conteâs spacious office. The casino boss sat behind his massive desk, his narrowed gaze drilling into him.
His bodyguard, Milo Forte, was seated beside him. Forte was a big man, well muscled beneath his well-cut suit, and Sherman knew he had a fearsome reputation. He was ready to act the moment his boss snapped his fingers. A pair of Conteâs hardmen stood near the desk, flanking Sol Lemke. They kept the man upright because he was unable to stand on his own.
Lemke was one of the accountants who worked under Sherman in the accounting department. It took him a few moments to recognize his subordinate, who had been beaten until his face was a swollen mess. There was excessive blood. His nose was flattened and his pulped mouth hung open, dribbling blood from his lacerated lips and gums down his shirtfront. From the way his left arm hung, it was obvious that it was broken and his left hand was a misshapen, finger-crushed mess.
Marco Conte ran the Vegas casino with a firm hand. He intimidated those who worked under him while presenting a genial face to the customers. No one crossed Conte. He was tough and uncompromising. From the tension in the office and the harsh expression on Conteâs face, Sherman knew that something heavy was going down.
As Sherman moved into the room he heard the solid door click shut behind him. He experienced a frisson of anxiety. He had no idea what this summons was all about.