Radical Edge
A hijacked tanker train loaded with fuel quickly becomes a high-octane weapon targeted at a massive oil field outside Dallas. The domestic terrorist group behind this savage plot is intent on delivering a double blow of homegrown hell by sending the U.S. economy an incendiary shockwave and slaughtering an entire community of migrant oil workers.Mack Bolan's mission turns into a death race to secure the speeding bomb and rescue the innocent hostages being used as human shields. When–and if–he succeeds, his directive expands to capturing the neo-Nazi leader alive. But Bolan's got a vengeance-hungry rogue FBI agent on his tail, taking aim at anyone standing in the way of his personal vendetta. And when the mission takes to the streets of Houston, Bolan joins a blood pursuit where only the winner survives.
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Collision course
A hijacked tanker train loaded with fuel quickly becomes a high-octane weapon targeted at a massive oil field outside Dallas. The domestic terrorist group behind this savage plot is intent on delivering a double blow of homegrown hell by sending the U.S. economy an incendiary shockwave and slaughtering an entire community of migrant oil workers.
Mack Bolanâs mission turns into a death race to secure the speeding bomb and rescue the innocent hostages being used as human shields. Whenâand ifâhe succeeds, his directive expands to capturing the neo-Nazi leader alive. But Bolanâs got a vengeance-hungry rogue FBI agent on his tail, taking aim at anyone standing in the way of his personal vendetta. And when the mission takes to the streets of Houston, Bolan joins a blood pursuit where only the winner survives.
âGo! Bomb! Run!â
The first incendiary bomb went off. Almost, but not quite in the same beat, the others erupted. A white flash and a ball of heat punched Mack Bolan in the small of his back, burning his neck, singeing his hairline. He tried to turn, tried to bring up his arms to protect his head.
Then he was falling. As Bolan floated through the air, as if suspended in space, he turned and saw the finger of thick, black smoke roiling from the instantly flash-burned Chevy, climbing high into the sky in oily ropes.
The pavement rushed up, and darkness claimed him.
Other titles available in this series:
A Dying Evil
Deep Treachery War Load Sworn Enemies Dark Truth Breakaway Blood and Sand Caged Sleepers Strike and Retrieve Age of War Line of Control Breached Retaliation Pressure Point Silent Running Stolen Arrows Zero Option Predator Paradise Circle of Deception Devilâs Bargain False Front Lethal Tribute Season of Slaughter Point of Betrayal Ballistic Force Renegade Survival Reflex Path to War Blood Dynasty Ultimate Stakes State of Evil Force Lines Contagion Option Hellfire Code War Drums Ripple Effect Devilâs Playground The Killing Rule Patriot Play Appointment in Baghdad Havana Five The Judas Project Plains of Fire Colony of Evil Hard Passage Interception Cold War Reprise Mission: Apocalypse Altered State Killing Game Diplomacy Directive Betrayed Sabotage Conflict Zone Blood Play Desert Fallout Extraordinary Rendition Devilâs Mark Savage Rule Infiltration Resurgence Kill Shot Stealth Sweep Grave Mercy Treason Play Assassinâs Code Shadow Strike Decision Point Road of Bones
Revenge is sweet, sweeter than life itselfâso say fools.
âJuvenal
There is revenge, and there is justice. One will destroy you. The other, when you have fought for it, makes it possible for you to go on living. A man who canât tell the difference is dead inside.
âMack Bolan
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Phil Elmore for his contribution to this work.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Outside Alamogordo, New Mexico
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, put a single 9 mm bullet through the left eye of the tattooed, skinhead terrorist, stepping over the body just as it collapsed onto the dusty ground. Shifting the FN P90 he wore on a sling across his chest, he let the silenced snout of his Beretta lead the way.
Neo-Nazis, Bolan thought with distaste. A dime a dozen. The domestic terrorists were like roaches, forever scuttling about no matter how many you crushed under your boot.
The soldier continued his slow crawl along the fence line surrounding the ramshackle, clapboard safe house. The structure was a mess; it appeared, at first glance, to be a mass of sun-bleached plywood and faded plastic tarps held together with hope and weighed down with cinder blocks.
A second skinhead sentry risked a look around the corner of the building, probably thinking he had heard something. He had, and it was the second-to-last thing he ever would hear. The very last thing was the muffled clap of Bolanâs Beretta as a 147-grain hollowpoint bullet dug a channel through the sentryâs brain.
Bolan moved quickly, crouched low, staying beneath the sight lines of the open windows. They were covered with heavy plastic over sheets of what was probably Plexiglas. The interior of the safe house buzzed with activity. Heavy-metal music blared from a stereo. Shouts and jeers could be heard. There was a party going on inside. Bolan had to hand it to the terrorists; they were remarkably true to type. When neo-Nazis werenât preying on those they hated, they spent their free time mired in teenage-mentality hedonism. The fact that they had posted sentries at all surprised Bolan, at least mildly.
Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm, Virginia, had placed the secure satellite call to Bolan in the middle of the night, waking the Executioner.
