Murder Island
Hunter's SnareOn an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean, a psychotic hunter stalks the most dangerous prey: man. His newest target is an international arms dealer, a criminal who was in CIA custody when his plane was shot down. Sent in to locate the missing prisoner, Mack Bolan finds himself caught in the same trap.But Bolan isn't the only one trying to secure the arms dealer. A team of mercenaries has joined the game, and they're playing to win. Hunted by the mercs, a psychopath's army and the island's deadly animal life, Bolan will need every tactic in his arsenal to recapture the prisoner and put an end to a maniac's big game hunt.
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HUNTERâS SNARE
On an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean, a psychotic hunter stalks the most dangerous prey: man. His newest target is an international arms dealer, a criminal who was in CIA custody when his plane was shot down. Sent in to locate the missing prisoner, Mack Bolan finds himself caught in the same trap.
But Bolan isnât the only one trying to secure the arms dealer. A team of mercenaries has joined the game, and theyâre playing to win. Hunted by the mercs, a psychopathâs army and the islandâs deadly animal life, Bolan will need every tactic in his arsenal to recapture the prisoner and put an end to a maniacâs big game hunt.
The tiger sprang toward him, jaws wide.
Bolan hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him.
The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between himself and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.
Suddenly, the greenery gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out before him.
Bolan heard the scrape of the tigerâs paws and spun, leveling the UMP. Too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball, and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering, and then the night air caught him, and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass.
Murder Island
Don Pendleton
The good man is perished out of the earth: and there is none upright among men: they all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net.
âMicah 7:2
The world is full of bloodthirsty men, but not all of them are brutal hunters. And those who would betray their brothers, their allies or their country will have to deal with me.
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.
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Mack Bolan paused, straining to catch the smallest whisper of sound. The air was hot, and a trickle of sweat inched its way between the dark fatigues he wore beneath his body armor and the skin on the back of his neck. Insects buzzed softly around him, audible but not visible. The jungle was awash in sound, but it was muted by the close-set foliage that cast shadows over the trail ahead.
Bolan had a lean, rangy shape. He stood so still that if anyone had been present, they might have thought him simply one more shadow among the multitude cast by the trees that rose up around him. Their wide, fleshy leaves formed a green canopy overhead.
There was no sky to be seen above him and no road ahead of himâonly a wall of vibrant greens, yellows and browns. The air pressed in on Bolanâs mouth and nose like a wet towel. He was reminded of a Louisiana hothouse heâd once had the bad fortune to spend a night in. Heâd been hunting that night, as wellâdifferent targets, but for similar reasons.
Wary now, his combat-honed senses tingling, the Executioner sank down and checked his gear. A Heckler & Koch UMP-45 was strapped across his chest and his Ka-Bar knife sat snugly in its sheath on his leg. His Desert Eagle pistol was on his hip and a sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R was holstered at the small of his back. The Beretta was set to fire 3-round burstsâsomething that had proved handy more than once. It was a .22 TCM conversion, with a 25-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. The Desert Eagle, in contrast, had only eight rounds in the magazine, but it also had a good deal more stopping power.
