Rogue Elements

TREACHEROUS CARGO

A freighter smuggling nuclear materials from North Korea to Iran should be an easy target for law enforcement. But then the ship drops off the map around the Horn of Africa, and another freighter with similar cargo disappears soon after. The only link between the vessels is a private security firm. With nukes floating around in the Indian Ocean, the race is on to prevent a horrific disaster…and Stony Man Farm has the perfect man for the job.

Mack Bolan’s first move is to infiltrate the security company as an undercover guard. But when he forms an unlikely alliance with a Somali pirate, it becomes clear these ships aren’t just falling prey to high-seas holdups—and it’s up to Bolan to unravel the conspiracy. With enemies onboard his vessel and trawling nearby waters, Bolan must be sharper and more uncompromising than ever. But not even an ocean can douse The Executioner’s fiery crusade for justice.

AK-47s stuttered into life from the approaching pirate boats.

The Caprice’s harbor searchlights stabbed into the gloom as the ship’s collision alarm began to whoop. The deck hummed beneath Bolan’s boots as the freighter’s diesels went to full power.

The captain shouted across Bolan’s com-link. “Fast boats coming alongside to starboard! Right in front of you! It’s the bloody Spanish Armada…”

Ladder hooks clanked onto the rail, the ladder shifting and shaking as it took the weight of boarders. Bolan lit his firebomb and rose. He swung the sling overhead like a tennis serve and released it over the side.

Men in the skiff below screamed as the flaming bottle shattered and fire engulfed the prow. The Executioner dropped just as bullets screamed past his head.

A high-powered rifle cracked out on the water.

“Sniper!” Bolan roared. “Hit the deck!”

Then a grenade launcher blooped and the stern lit up in an orange, high-explosive flash.

Rogue Elements

Don Pendleton

People who make no noise are dangerous.

—Jean de La Fontaine

A soldier has to remain calm and steadfast. Hatred and anger clouds judgment, and that can get you killed. When you face an enemy, you have to keep your head—or you’ll lose it.

—Mack 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 name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s 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 society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to 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 allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged 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 “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Dedication

Legend

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Copyright

Chapter One

Salalah, Oman

“We Viking guys get all the shit assignments.” Rafe Sifuentes scowled as he looked around the Café Américain. “And this place? Total latrine.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, nodded. The bar was in fact something of a dump. The name was a dim nod to the film Casablanca, and that was about all it had in common with Humphrey Bogart’s place. Café Américain was one of the few government-licensed bars in Oman not attached to an international hotel, and it catered to sailors and foreign dockworkers in the Port of Salalah, as well as locals who could afford the bribe and wished to drink illegally outside their homes. It sported several big-screen TVs tuned to FOX News and international football. Sifuentes, a former US Army Ranger, was Texan, in his early twenties and sported military and Mexican religious tattoos over much of his physique.

“I’ve been in worse places,” Bolan admitted.

“Is that even possible?”

The Executioner took a long pull of his lager. “At least the beer is cold.”

“Yeah, well, settle in then, pilgrim, ’cause this is where we R & R until further notice. I was talking to a Rampart asshole at the airport. You know where his team spent time off between ships? The Seychelles. You know where that is?”