“Incoming!” Kissinger shouted.
Grimaldi eased off the accelerator, falling back a few yards. Behind him Bolan powered down his window and leaned out, rattling off a diversionary burst. The ploy worked. The Stony Man warriors heard the faint throttle of the AK-47, but the rounds flew wide of their mark.
Kissinger had ducked below the dash, but righted himself, clutching his pistol, his eyes fixed on the rear of the panel truck in front of them.
“Looks like the guy’s reloading,” Grimaldi warned, putting the pedal to the metal. “Hang on. I’m going to ram them!” The Stony Man pilot was executing a last-ditch play. If they didn’t stop the truck, Franklin Colt was as good as dead.
Other titles available in this series:
Cloud of Death
Termination Point
Hellfire Strike
Code of Conflict
Vengeance
Executive Action
Killsport
Conflagration
Storm Front
War Season
Evil Alliance
Scorched Earth
Deception
Destiny’s Hour
Power of the Lance
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
Devil’s 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
Devil’s 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
Don Pendleton’s
Mack Bolan®
Blood Play
When a friend is in trouble, don’t annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it.
—Edgar Watson Howe
1853–1937
What’s appropriate is direct action against perpetrators who commit atrocities for their own profit. Law-abiding people have no chance against these predators. That’s where I come in.
—Mack Bolan
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
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
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Taos, New Mexico
Walter Upshaw stared noncommitally at the elaborate architectural drawings laid out on the table of his modest two-bedroom home. It was situated atop Pueblo Peak, which afforded a panoramic view of the one-hundred-thousand-acre tribal reservation he helped administer as seven-time president of the Taos Pueblo Governing Council. One set of drawings illustrated a proposed sixty-thousand-square-foot casino with an attached four-story, four-hundred-room hotel. Another rendering transposed the designated site for the gaming facility onto a topographical map that included several circled areas set deep in the Taos Mountains. There were no markings to explain the intended use of the latter areas, but Upshaw knew they indicated long-abandoned uranium mines. Resting next to the topo map was a manila file filled with documentation as to various means by which to carry on an environmental cleanup of the sites.
“You’ve certainly put a lot of effort into this presentation,” Upshaw finally told the two men who’d made the arduous four-mile drive up a winding mountain road to confer with the tribal leader. He’d already met Freddy McHale, a bald, barrel-chested man of roughly the same age, several times during the past few months. McHale’s colleague, a younger, rusty-haired man who’d been introduced as Pete Trammell, was noticeably shorter than his companion and had said only a few words since Upshaw had invited them into his house. McHale, on behalf of Global Holdings Corporation, ran the gambling operations at the Roaming Bison Casino, a co-venture with the Rosqui Tribal Council located an hour’s drive south of Taos on the outskirts of Santa Fe. McHale had told Upshaw that Trammell was GHC’s Ancillary Project Manager. The widowed tribal leader hadn’t bothered to ask for a translation as to what such a job might entail.
McHale smiled amicably. “I know we’ve already hashed out most of this a few times and gone over some crude drawings,” he said, his voice tinged with what seemed to Upshaw more of an Eastern European accent than the Irish brogue his name would suggest. “But I thought maybe if you had a clearer picture of what we had in mind you’d see this as a win-win deal. We’re not only offering you a way to increase your pueblo’s per capita income by at least a hundred percent, we’re also committed to cleaning up uranium sites that, if they existed outside the reservation, would likely be declared EPA supersites due to the risk of toxic exposure.”
“I can’t help thinking there has to be some kind of ulterior motive on your part,” Upshaw replied. “All this altruism about cleaning up the uranium sites… I’m sorry, but something about it doesn’t ring true.”
“It’s not just altruism,” McHale explained. “As you know, we don’t just run the casino at Rosqui, we’re also in charge of the nuclear waste site there. We have a sound track record on that front, and it’d be easy enough for us to secure funding to add facilities for dealing with your uranium.”
“It’s business,” Trammell piped in.
“And a successful one,” McHale went on. “If you don’t be
lieve us, ask any of your colleagues at Rosqui. They get a cut of both ventures, just as you would here.”
“You’ve presented this same argument every time we’ve met,” Upshaw said, “and when I counter with my position, I can almost see the words going in one ear and out the other.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” McHale’s voice had begun to lose its tone of cordiality. The shift was not lost on Upshaw, but he pretended not to notice.
“Rosqui Pueblo is a bit fonder of Red Capitalism than we are here in Taos,” the tribal president went on. “Here, we’re already a bit uncomfortable with what little gambling we offer at our small casino. We have, if you’ll pardon the pun, certain reservations about expanding things any further. As for the uranium mines, they’re located far from any inhabited areas, and we’ve already conducted tests to confirm that the tailings are in no danger of leaching into the watershed. The way I see it, it’s a case of ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’”
“Are you sure you speak for the majority of your people?” McHale asked. “Not to mention your fellow members of the tribal council?”
Upshaw narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the businessmen.
“I’m in charge of this pueblo,” he said coldly. “I hope I’m wrong in sensing that you’ve been trying to wheel and deal behind my back.”
“We’ve requested all along that we be allowed to make a presentation to the entire council,” McHale countered. “You keep refusing. Why is that?”
“I have my reasons.”
“It’s because you know they’d probably back our offer.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“If this were a poker game, I’d call your bluff,” Upshaw said. “As it is, however, I’ll merely advise you that if I find out you’re trying to make an end run around my authority, there will be consequences.”
“Are you threatening me?” McHale asked.
“I’m a man of action,” Upshaw replied. “I don’t bother with threats.”
“Neither do we,” Trammell snapped.
McHale shot Trammell an angry glance. Chastened, the shorter man diverted his gaze and fell silent. McHale turned back to Upshaw.
“Seats on the governing council are elected positions,” he said. “As is the council presidency.”
“I’ve been reelected by a landslide every time I’ve run for another term,” Upshaw said. “I don’t see that changing.”
“Times have changed, Walter, and not for the better. Your people are struggling to make ends meet like everyone else. If they see a way to better their lot, are you certain they’ll be willing to stick with the status quo?”
“I’ll thank you not to address me by my first name, Mr. McHale,” Upshaw said. “We’re getting nowhere here and I have some other matters to attend to, so I would suggest that we call it a day.”
McHale stared at Upshaw a moment, then sighed and began to gather up his presentation materials. Trammell grabbed a large leather portfolio propped next to the table and held it open so McHale could slip the materials inside.
“I have computer copies of all this,” McHale told Upshaw. “I’ll send them to you and maybe once you’ve had a chance to look everything over more thoroughly—”
“There’s no need for that,” Upshaw interrupted. “I’ve already committed to a small expansion of our existing casino with our current partners. That’s as far as I intend to see things go.”
McHale stopped what he was doing. His neck flushed crimson and the rage in his eyes was matched by the coldness in his voice. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me,” Upshaw said evenly. “I’d prefer to stick with the people I’m already working with. Nothing personal.”
“If you’ve already made up your mind,” McHale said, “then why did you have us come all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and make a presentation?”
“I wanted to see your reaction,” Upshaw said calmly. “You really need to work on your poker face, Mr. McHale.”
McHale checked himself and slowly continued putting away the drawings and files. By the time he’d finished, he’d regained his composure. He took the portfolio from Trammell and tucked it under one arm, then extended the other to Upshaw.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t do business, Mr. Upshaw, but thank you for your time.”
Upshaw stared at McHale’s hand but refused to shake it. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”
McHale pulled his hand back. Trammell was already headed for the door. McHale followed him. A few minutes later they were back in McHale’s customized Hummer, heading back down the long service road linking Upshaw’s home with the existing casino, a small converted lodge visible two miles below on a plain at the foot of the mountain.
“He knows something,” Trammell said, speaking, not in English but in his native Russian. McHale nodded, then responded in the same language.
“We’ve had our suspicions he might.”
“We need to consider our contingency plan, then,” Trammell said.
McHale nodded again as he navigated a turn in the road. “We need to step up surveillance on him,” he said. “Tap his phone, hack his computer, tail him. Whatever it takes to find out who tipped him off.”
“It has to be somebody at Rosqui.”
“More than likely,” McHale said. “Keep an eye on his son, too. He’ll factor into this.”
“Orson, too?”
“Absolutely,” McHale replied. “There has to be a way we can kill two birds with one stone here.”
“More than just two,” Trammell said ominously. “And I have a feeling we’ll be killing more than just birds.”
CHAPTER ONE
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
Mack Bolan was twenty minutes into his jog on one of the gymnasium treadmills facing a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the eastern perimeter of Stony Man Farm. Through the window he could see the bare-limbed, regimentally planted poplars surrounding the distant Annex as well as the tip of that building’s storage silo, which outsiders were led to believe contained nothing but wood chips ground up as a byproduct of the Farm’s timber-harvesting venture. In fact, the uppermost cavity of the silo contained not only a concealed array of antiaircraft ordnance but also a bevy of communications antennae and data-link transmitters servicing the cybernetic team operating out of the subterranean bunker facility located one floor down from the lumber mill. Two blacksuits stationed amid the poplars were equally discreet, busying themselves with farm chores, their firearms concealed beneath coveralls and lightweight shirts so as to not give away their primary function, which was to safeguard this, the clandestine headquarters for America’s foremost covert task force. Bolan himself was a key player for the Sensitive Operations Group, having helped found the organization years ago when his War Everlasting had expanded from forays against organized crime to tackling the global threat posed by terrorists, drug cartels and other entities hell-bent on subverting U.S. interests in pursuit of their own self-serving agendas. For the moment, the warrior who’d come to be known as the Executioner was between assignments, but there was already another mission in the offing, and within the hour Bolan expected to be en route to the West Coast to engage once more with the enemy. As always, he planned to be ready for the challenge.
“I figured I might find you here.”
Bolan continued to jog in place as he glanced over at the attractive, blond-haired woman approaching the treadmills. Barbara Price was SOG’s mission controller, but she and Bolan shared a bond that went far beyond their mutual commitment to the Farm’s top-secret charter. A few short hours ago, they’d been in each other’s arms back in Price’s bedroom at the farmhouse, a gentrified structure that helped the Farm present itself outwardly as just another of many upwardly mobile country estates dotting this remote sprawl of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains.
“I thought I gave you enough exercise for on
e day, soldier,” Price teased.
Bolan grinned faintly. “I figured I’d tire myself out a little more so I can sleep on the flight,” he replied. They both spoke quietly, barely above a whisper, mindful of several off-duty blacksuits working out with free weights on the other side of the exercise room.
“They’re still refueling the jet,” Price responded. “I just heard from Ironman, though. They’re bogged down on logistics and don’t figure to have their ducks in a row until sometime late tomorrow. So you have the option of laying over in Albuquerque for that convention Cowboy’s attending.”
Ironman was Carl Lyons, field leader for Able Team, SOG’s go-to commando squad for countermanding threats to the U.S. usually on American soil. The three-man team had been deployed a few days ago to Seattle, where it was now closing in on a smuggling ring purported to be running arms across the border in nearby Vancouver. The smugglers were linked to a survivalist sect on file in the Farm databases for actively abetting several purported al Qaeda sleeper cells throughout the Northwest. Able Team was concerned about spreading itself too thin in pursuit of the various leads that had turned up since its arrival, prompting Bolan’s offer to fly out and lend a hand. Intent as he was on tackling the assignment, the Executioner also saw merit in the notion of spending an extra half-day in Albuquerque with John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s resident weaponsmith. Kissinger would be attending a three-day trade show focused on the latest advancements in weaponry and combat gear, and Bolan was intrigued by some of the breakthroughs Kissinger had told him about. Anything that would help give him and his fellow commandos an edge over the enemy, Bolan felt, was always worth a firsthand look.
Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan) Page 1
