Hazard Zone

A moving shadow was all the warning the Executioner had

Bolan did a full running roll to get out of the way as a machete glinted in the moonlight.

“Got to kill you,” the heavily accented voice said. “For the Obeah Man.”

Bolan kept moving and came up with the Desert Eagle in his hand. He needed someone left alive who could talk, so he fired low, blowing out the man’s kneecap.

The posse member screamed and went down, and Bolan immediately turned back to the driveway, hoping to catch up to his target. But the car kicked up gravel as it peeled away, and he got only a glimpse inside—enough to see that the Obeah Man was getting away.

Bolan walked back to the man screaming on the ground and kicked the machete out of reach. “We need to have a talk.”

“Screw you!” the man muttered.

“It’s a start,” the Executioner said. “But I’m looking for something a little more informative.”

Hazard Zone

The Executioner^®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Everyone has his superstitions. One of mine has always been when I started to go anywhere, or to do anything, never turn back or to stop until the thing intended was accomplished.

—Ulysses S. Grant

1822–1885

Each mission has its challenges, and the path to resolution is never predictable. But regardless of the hurdles, I promise to always follow through until every last enemy is taken care of…one way or another.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

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

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Prologue

“Shiver shot!” everyone screamed at once, laughing and giggling.

Bastiene “Spook” Durene smiled at the group of college students seated around the table, while the young woman to his right blushed. For their evening entertainment, they’d chosen a popular drinking game called Suicide Kings, and with some subtle manipulation of the cards, he’d drawn the King of Spades.

They were far too drunk to realize he’d been stacking the deck all night, moving the game to the outcome he desired, while ensuring his own sobriety. There was too much to accomplish this night to allow himself to become inebriated. Bastiene pointed a long finger at the woman, then picked up a thin wedge of lime from the bowl on the table. “You,” he said, pitching his voice low enough so that only she could hear him.

“Me,” she said, blushing again as he placed the lime between her lips. She grasped it between her teeth.

He leaned closer, then slowly ran his tongue along her neck. She shivered and he smiled once more, hiding his grin beneath a long curl of her hair. Everything was going according to plan. He reached for the saltshaker and tossed a few shakes at the damp line he’d put on her neck, then he licked it clean, drank off the shot of tequila and moved to her lips. He took the lime from her mouth into his, turning it into a deep kiss.

“Mmm,” he whispered against her neck as the kiss ended. “I be bettin’ you glamity tastes even finer.” Bastiene purposely used the Jamaican accent and slang she and her friends expected, though he could, and often did, speak perfect English.

“Glamity?” she asked, giggling.

“I be showin’ you soon,” he said. “And you be showin’ me.”

The young woman laughed and leaned away. Her name was Amber Carson. Tall and seductive, she had a body that would make any frat boy her willing slave. She pushed a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder as she moved the shot glasses out of the way. So far, she’d already had six shots of from the large bottle of tequila. This night, all his work would pay off. This was Amber’s fourth trip to Jamaica, and each time, he’d made a point of meeting her, getting to know her a little bit better. He tried not to laugh as she even now had to puzzle over the true meaning of his words.

He watched as she grasped what he meant—that she would taste good in her most private of places—then openly grinned as her blush deepened even more. “Maybe,” she said, laughing and pushing him away. “And maybe not! First I’ve got to get something to eat!”

“Then let’s get you something to eat,” he said, gesturing at the nearby buffet table that was loaded with food.

Her chair scraped the floor as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “Deal me out,” she said. “It’s food or puke, and I’m voting with my feet.”

Everyone laughed again and waved her off as she headed to the buffet. Bastiene followed closely behind her. In the times she’d been here, he’d learned a great deal about her. Her father was a U.S. senator, but before that, he’d built a pretty sizable fortune in various types of mining. She was obviously spoiled—how many young women got to spend their downtime at a private resort in Jamaica—but he also knew she was just a year away from finishing her undergraduate degree in international law in the top ten of her class. He’d even overheard her talking with her friends about graduate school and someday working in a U.S. Embassy somewhere overseas.

With her connections, such a dream would be attainable. If Bastiene had any truly compassionate feelings at all, he might feel a little sad that her dream would never come true. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t feel much compassion for anyone, let alone a spoiled little rich girl who was merely one cog in a much bigger plan. The world was filled with young women like her, and one more or less would make no difference.

The Goldshore Villas Resort was a custom-built haven for the rich and the privileged. The private condominium community was especially popular this time of year, when wealthy kids from the U.S. came to Montego Bay for spring break. With private hot tubs and lots of hidden paths for secret trysts, it was the perfect place to escape the notice of overprotective parents and the prying eyes of paparazzi that hounded them in the States. For this trip, Amber had brought a half-dozen friends with her, and they lived it up in a style that would make most of the other students in Jamaica for the weeklong party green with envy. There was plenty of booze, mountains of food and enough ganja to keep everyone happily stoned. When they weren’t playing in the surf or lying on the beach, they were dancing and partying and having sex.

Bastiene was one of a handful of locals who knew her well—and he’d made it a point of being one of the few who always showed up to party on his off-hours. His time working here was almost done, however, and he was grateful for that. She was the one, the Obeah man had assured him, that would allow their plans to move into the next and final phase. They would finally be ready.

Amber stopped at the buffet, picked up a plate and began to load it with fruit and cheese. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she continued along the line feigning interest that was even less subtle with her overindulgence of tequila. He knew she was checking to see if he’d followed. From what he’d overheard on her first day there, she’d just broken up with a fairly serious boyfriend, and was committed to having a commitment-free but very fun weekend. He’d turned on the charm after that, using his dark good looks and deep voice to every advantage. He had some fun in mind, too. The mission was important, but there was no reason not to indulge in the little slice of American pie, especially after all of his hard work.

Adjusting his dreadlocks, he moved behind her and put his large hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. She leaned back into him, rubbing seductively. He kissed her neck just behind her ear.

She giggled once more, and he leaned close to whisper, “What’s so funny, girl?”

“Nothing I’m willing to share yet,” she said archly, turning her attention back to the buffet. She loaded up a plate with jerk chicken, seasoned rice and coco bread. “Come sit with me?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to a small, private table beneath an umbrella, then leading the way to pull out her chair. “Something to drink?” he asked as she sat down.

“Just a cola,” she said. “If I’m going to last the night, I need to slow down a little.”

He nodded and crossed the patio to the wet bar, slipping behind it to get her cola. With his hands hidden by the front of the bar, he slipped the small vial of white powder from his pocket. He tapped the vial with the roofie to keep it from sticking in the humid Jamaican climate and poured it into the glass. After adding a few cubes of ice and filling it with cola, he used a swizzle stick from the bar to mix it carefully, ensuring that the powder had dissolved completely. Then he returned to the table where she had made a sandwich from the jerk chicken on the coco bread.

“Ask and receive,” he said, offering her the glass.

She took it from his hand, then gulped down several large swallows. “Thanks,” she said. “I was getting a little dehydrated.”

“I understand,” he said. “Eat and you’ll feel better.”

She resumed her meal and he watched her carefully, noting how often she drank from the glass, and seeing the drug slowly take effect. “I must have had…” she started to say, her words slurring as she verbally stumbled. She tried again, laughing. “More tequila than I thought.”

“Don’ you worry on it,” he said. “Jus’ relax and everything gonna be fine.”

Amber turned and stared into his eyes. “You’re…beautiful,” she said. “You have a voice like…like…melted chocolate.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You are beautiful, too.”

She finished off the cola and the food, and tried to get to her feet. It was only by moving quickly that he was able to catch her and keep her from falling flat on her rear end. “Oops!” she said.

“Perhaps you should be lying down,” he suggested, holding her tightly in his arms.

“Is that an offer?” She laughed.

“It is,” he said.

“Then take me to my room!” she demanded, pointing back at the resort and swaying on her feet. In another few minutes, the drug would rapidly overcome her system. He needed to move quickly.

“Ask and receive,” he said again, scooping her off her feet completely.

“Whee!” she cried.

Her friends turned to see the commotion and laughed. “Hey, Amber,” one of her girlfriends shouted. “Are you off to explore the dark continent?” Laughter echoed over the patio again.

“Every…single…inch!” she crowed. “Got to sample the local cuisine!”

He smiled broadly and began carrying her toward the resort building where her condo was located. In less time than it took him to get there, she was passed out completely. Before he got to the building itself, he turned and made his way around the side. No one was in sight, and he moved to the front and to the waiting Jeep.

Another man got out and opened the back. He put Amber’s unconscious form inside. “Take her to the Obeah man,” he said. “She is not to be harmed. I will be there as soon as I can.”

“You got it,” the other man said. He jumped back in, started the engine, then drove away.

Bastiene returned to the main building and made his way to Amber’s room. Once there, he checked to ensure that her bed looked slept in—it did—and that nothing else was out of place. He took a glass from the bar and poured a generous serving of rum. He wandered around the room as he sipped his drink. A mirror next to the dresser showed the red lipstick smudge on his collar. He moved to the wet bar and sat quietly for several minutes finishing off the rum. When he was done, he put it back on the bar and headed out of the room.

He took his time, walking calmly, and arrived back at the patio. Amber’s girlfriend—a redhead whose name he didn’t know—laughed uproariously when he explained sheepishly that she’d passed out before the explorations could begin. “Perhaps I’ll do better tomorrow,” he said.

“Not if she’s sober!” the young woman replied.

Everyone laughed, including Bastiene, and he made a point of staying for several more hours, then excusing himself for the night. On his way out, he stopped by the front desk and chatted with the clerk for several minutes, then he went out the front door, got into his own Jeep and left.

On his way to the hidden home of the Obeah man, he scrubbed away the makeup on his face and arms that hid the tattoos and scars marking him as a member of the Undead Posse…and an apprentice to the Obeah arts.

“THIS PART IS CRITICAL, man,” Bastiene said. “The trigger must not move until the autopsy.”

The little man with the wire-rimmed glasses nodded. “I know, I know,” he said. “I’ve got my orders.”

On the slab before him was the body of Amber Carson. The drug Bastiene had given her had done its work well. Half-conscious, she was almost unresisting as he’d raped her. The Obeah man had said that his seed would be the magic that ensured their success. As far as Bastiene was concerned, magic or not, taking the young woman had been a pleasure. Her body had been warm and supple, her breasts firm. The way she’d squirmed and wriggled beneath him in protest had added greatly to the experience. Even in death she was still beautiful, the perfect corpse, looking almost alive, a siren drawing in its prey.

After, it had been a matter of little work to smother her to death, then mark the body with his thin-bladed knife. This final step, however, was crucial. The little man was Dr. Steffens, and he’d been sent by the man helping them in the United States to perform a special surgery. Using a tiny camera and going in through her esophagus, Steffens was placing two items in Amber’s abdominal cavity. The first was a thin metal tube filled with anthrax spores, and the second was a unique triggering mechanism.

When the doctor performing the autopsy in the United States made the initial incisions to open her up, the mechanism would be armed by the change in internal pressure. Then, when he delved farther to explore her internal organs—specifically her stomach—the trigger would be released by this second change in pressure. The resulting small explosion would tear a hole in the metal tube, spilling the anthrax spores into the room and killing everyone present.

If it worked.

The double pressure switch had to be positioned perfectly next to the tube, and also resistant to the natural gases that would build up in her body as it decomposed and the pressure changes that would occur when her body was flown back to the United States. Finding the perfect methodology had been a matter of numerous experiments, conducted in extreme secrecy. Once they’d finalized their technique, they needed to decide on a target.

It had been their friend in the United States who had suggested Amber—young, beautiful and a senator’s daughter. Her body would be flown back to Washington, D.C., and treated with the utmost care. Taking the job at the private resort where she came to play had been a hassle, but the Obeah man often told Bastiene that the best magic came from association with the victim. It was unfortunate that he’d have to continue to work there for some time afterward—it was the only way to avoid being accused—and even then, suspicions would be high. There was always a price to be paid for such powerful magic, and if he needed to still play serving boy then he would do so.

Steffens mumbled something under his breath, then let out a long, slow exhale and leaned back.

“What?” Bastiene demanded. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Steffens said. “She’s ready. Just be sure not to bounce her around too much when you move her.”

“I’ll be as soft as a lamb,” he said.

“Good,” the man replied. “Then I’m out of here. There’s a chopper waiting to take me back to my ship.”

“Go, man,” Bastiene said, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll be takin’ care of the girl.”

1

Other than imminent violence, few things had the power to bring Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, fully awake like a phone call in the middle of the night. As the first tones sounded from his cell phone, he sat up in bed, aware that these calls never came with good news—usually just the opposite. Someone was either dead or someone needed to be.

“Yeah,” he said, answering before the second ring had finished.

“Sorry to wake you, Striker.”

He recognized the voice of Hal Brognola immediately. Brognola was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group—located at Stony Man Farm, Virginia. He used to work for the clandestine organization directly, but now had an arm’s length association with the outfit. Their mission hadn’t changed—they still took on terrorists and criminals that the U.S. government couldn’t or wouldn’t. When the situation was complicated, they called on Mack Bolan to uncomplicate it. His presence was never official.

“It’s not a problem, Hal,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a full-scale mess,” he said. “There’s been an anthrax attack in Washington, D.C. It’s been contained, but a senator was killed, and the whole thing is getting ready to turn into an epic disaster.”

Bolan knew the security precautions that had been in place since 9/11. “That’s a mess all right. How’d they get anthrax that close to a U.S. senator?”

“You won’t believe me when I tell you,” Brognola said. “It was stored inside the body of his dead daughter. Somehow, these terrorists rigged it to explode during the autopsy—and, of course, Senator Carson demanded to be on hand.”

“What?” Bolan was rarely disturbed by the things he saw and heard, but this was going too far. “Her body exploded?”

“Apparently it was some kind of pressure trigger,” Brognola explained. “When they got to her stomach…”

“Jesus,” Bolan said.

“Yeah, I know. It’s unheard-of, and the kind of play that only truly bad men would even consider. The entire thing is on video, and it will be in the file I’m sending. Anyway, Senator Carson was killed, along with his Secret Service agent, the doctor and his assistant, and several other people who ran into the room after the explosion. This was weaponized anthrax, Stricker. They’ve had to seal off an entire section of Bethesda Naval Hospital, and the other bodies in the morgue were contaminated, too. The whole place has to go through decon.”

“I assume you want me to track down the source of the attack?”

“Yeah, that and…” Brognola’s voice trailed off.

“And what?” Bolan asked. “Come on, Hal, you don’t usually hesitate.”

The big Fed sighed heavily. “Look, this wasn’t just a well-executed biological attack. They used her, Striker, and I mean that in the most literal sense. The coroner had already completed the rape kit and some of the toxicology before the explosion. She’d been given Rohypnol. She was raped and killed. Symbols had been carved into her body with some kind of thin-bladed knife. And then they filled her with a deadly virus and killed her father, along with some other good people. I don’t just want the source, Striker. I want to know every bastard that was behind this and…”

Bolan could hear the deep anger in Brognola’s voice, and he felt some of it himself. “What exactly do you want me to do, Hal?”

“I want you to do whatever it takes,” he snapped. “I want the son of a bitch responsible for this to pay. The full tab.”

“All right,” he said. “Where do I start?”

“Looks like you’re going back to Jamaica,” Brognola said. “Amber Carson was down there on vacation. I’ll send you over everything we’ve got on her. You’ve been booked on a flight leaving in—” Bolan could hear the clicking of a keyboard in the background “—five-and-a-half hours.”

“What’s my cover?” Bolan asked.

“I know you prefer something less flashy, but I’m going to send you in as CIA, and I’ll get you a meet at the American Embassy in Kingston. Amber’s death has already created a shitstorm down there, and it’s a guarantee that every government agency we’ve got is going to have people traipsing around. One more agent asking questions should go unnoticed, but still get you a little cooperation.”

“I don’t know that traipsing is the word. With a dead senator, you won’t be able to move five feet without running into some government official from here or there. Our deal is usually low profile, and this has the makings of a very high-profile mess. Why is Stony Man Farm so quick to jump in when there are so many other agencies involved?” Before Brognola could respond, he added, “Look, I understand it’s bad, what they did to the girl, and the anthrax, even the death of a senator, but that doesn’t automatically make it one for us.”

“Striker, I know,” Brognola said. “It’s… Yeah, this one is a little personal, I get that, but it’s well within our mandate.”

Bolan considered his friend’s words. “And you’re sure this is how you want to play it, Hal?”

“I’m sure, Striker,” he said. “I need you on this one. I can’t trust that anyone else will do it right, and I don’t want there to be some kind of cover-up if this gets really big.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll find whoever did this, Hal.”

“I know you will, Striker. Good luck.” Brognola ended the connection.

Bolan put his phone back on the nightstand and headed for the shower. It was going to be a long day, and he wanted to review the file Brognola was sending to him before he got on the plane, as well as review anything the news might have on the situation.

As he stepped under the hot spray of the shower and leaned into the pressure of the water, Bolan couldn’t keep the disturbing thought of how brutal it was to kill a man’s daughter and then use the grief to kill the parent, as well. There was a lot of evil in the world, but this was a level of brutality that didn’t come around too often.

He decided it wouldn’t hurt to do some research online. He’d run across some Jamaican gangbangers in the past, and they played hardball. He also had a recent run-in with chemical zombies in Jamaica. But biological weapons didn’t seem to fit with anything the gangs had done before. Any intel he could come up with before he went in might be a weapon he could use later.

And Bolan had the feeling that he’d need every weapon he could get.

SITTING IN FRONT of his laptop, Bolan reviewed the file Brognola had sent, then went online and used the instructions the big Fed had given him in order to view the video file of what happened at Amber Carson’s autopsy. It had been stored behind several federal law-enforcement firewalls, but Aaron Kurtzman and the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm had no trouble finding work-arounds to get him in.

The video showed the autopsy suite at Bethesda Naval Hospital. On the stainless-steel table, a beautiful young woman was covered with a sheet. Nearby, the coffin in which she’d been transported back to the States sat on a table, the lid open. Bolan froze the image and saw that the coffin was metal and stamped with the seal of the Coast Guard. That explained why the trigger, which had to have been pressure based, didn’t activate prior to the autopsy—the coffin had been pressurized and sealed to preserve evidence.

He tapped the play icon and the video resumed. Standing over the body of Amber Carson was a man who spoke into the hanging microphone, identifying himself as Dr. Harvey Palfrey. He gave the particulars of her name and date of birth, while across the room, a sad-faced man Bolan recognized as Senator William Carson stood and watched. Next to him, a Secret Service agent stared at nothing, while occasionally speaking into his wrist microphone to update the other agents that were undoubtedly outside the room. Reading from a sheet of notes, Palfrey gave the findings of the already completed toxicology report and the rape kit.

Bolan felt a thread of anger burn in his stomach. Amber Carson had been young, beautiful and well educated, with a world of opportunity in front of her. She should have lived a long, full life. Now she was dead—raped and murdered by some thug. He also felt badly for Dr. Palfrey. As one of the handful of physicians at Bethesda Naval Hospital who regularly served members of Congress, it was his unfortunate task to conduct the autopsy. Under normal circumstances, performing an autopsy on a young person was undoubtedly unpleasant; with Senator William Carson watching as he did so, would have made any doctor tense.

Bolan froze the video on Carson’s face. The poor man obviously hadn’t slept in several days, and it was a little strange that he’d be present for the autopsy itself. Still, he was a grieving father, and a powerful Senator, so if he’d made an issue of being there, even Dr. Palfrey couldn’t rightly gainsay him. He started the video once more and listened as Palfrey asked the senator again if he would consider waiting outside. Carson frowned and shook his head.

“Please, Senator,” Dr. Palfrey said. “I understand—”

“Enough!” he snapped. “I want the answers. Nothing is going to happen unless I am around to see it. I wasn’t there when she died, but I sure as hell am going to find out who did this and make them pay. You and I both know that nothing in Washington is a coincidence, and I don’t believe that the daughter of a senator is killed this way by happen-stance.”

Senator Carson moved forward and instinctively Palfrey moved back. Bolan watched as Carson stretched out his hand and stroked his daughter’s blond hair. The pain seemed to almost overwhelm him as he leaned on the table with his other hand. The room stayed silent for another minute. Palfrey finally broke the silence by clearing his throat. The senator straightened and turned on his heel to return to his place next to the Secret Service agent.

“Get on with it. The sooner you’re finished, the sooner we can have the full findings. I flew to Jamaica to pick up her body, and I will stand by her until she is properly laid to rest. It is…it is the least I can offer her until the raping, murderous son of a bitch who did this to her can be brought to justice.”

The doctor’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but he nodded and resumed his position next to the table.

Not knowing the man, Bolan couldn’t make a guess as to Carson’s motivations, but he was obviously obsessed with knowing everything—and if everything was horrible and disturbing, it would likely only further fuel his rage and insistence on justice.

Palfrey turned his attention to the body on the table and lowered the boom microphone, then selected a scalpel from the tray next to him. Lifting up the vital-statistics card, he started the official recording, giving Amber’s name and statistics, then turned to the body. “Beginning the initial incision, a standard Y cut to prepare the chest and abdominal cavities.”

He worked quickly, speaking his findings into the microphone as he went. An assistant stood nearby, making notes and moving in clean containers for the organs when they were needed. Carson and the Secret Service agent stood silently, flinching only when they used a small saw to get past the rib cage. The doctor examined and removed Amber’s lungs, kidneys, spleen and liver, noting that each appeared healthy and undamaged.

“Moving on to the intestinal tract and the stomach,” Palfrey said. He made another incision, angling the cut slightly to avoid slicing open the stomach until he’d removed it from the abdominal cavity. “The appearance of the stomach organ is—” he started to say, then stopped. “Did anyone else hear that?” he asked.

Bolan could detect a barely audible high-pitched whine, and he saw the Secret Service agent begin to move.

Then the stomach exploded in Palfrey’s hands, and he screamed in agony. The video captured the flash of powder-filled light and then stopped.

“Damn,” Bolan muttered, knowing that the attack was not only vicious, but required genuine imagination and intelligence. He closed the file and finished packing. He had a flight to catch and some very bad men to track down and bring to justice.