Annotation
A federal government agent was missing, a very special agent. Mack Bolan found her in a chicken coop in Kansas. At first the sultry beauty did not recognize Mack. At first she could only moan.
Her name was Smiley Dublin, a Ranger girl from Bolans war against the Mafia. She had fallen prey to pitiless slavers who treated humans like cattle- abducting, drugging, beating, selling them.
Bolans gut burned. In a Jersey warehouse, he squeezed Tommy the Weasel till he squealed, then followed a trail of horror all the way to Algiers.
He would make the flesh peddlers pay with their blood.
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
* * *
Don Pendleton's
Sold for Slaughter
Better an end with horrors than horrors without an end.
Macedonian peasant slogan during the Ilenden Uprising against the empire of the Turks
The seeker of truth is a student of death.
Mack Bolan
Dedicated to the 269 passengers of KAL Flight 007. We shall not forget them.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contributions to this work.
Prologue
After three days, Mack Bolan was prepared to give up hope. He knew the odds against survival, and he knew that death was virtually certain. And while that knowledge ripped at his guts, there was nothing he could do.
A missing agent was a fellow soldier's primal fear. Sudden death was preferable to the nagging doubts and open-ended questions that a disappearance left behind. Bolan knew the consequences of falling into savage hands, and he wished the hostage, if nothing else, a quick, clean kill.
Death could be a blessing, sweet release.
Bolan remembered the tortured sound of helpless, hopeless screaming, a sound he had heard many times before, and it sickened him, provoked a tremor of the soul. The enemy continually found new methods of torture, but the result was always the same — pain.
Silently, the soldier cursed his endless war.
Combatants knew the game and took their chances, but when it came down to basics there were no expendable allies. If Bolan's bloody war had taught him any single lesson, it was that everybody counts. That truth — the fundamental worth of human life and dignity — was at the heart of every Mack Bolan action.
Undeniably, there were practical considerations. A hostage-taking was potentially disastrous for the Stony Man program. Any leak of information, a revelation under torture, could disrupt the mission irreversibly. There were contingencies and options if the hostage could be found in time, before the will was broken.
If the agent could be reached without exposing the project.
If...
Bolan was concerned at present with the human factor — the flesh-and-blood investment — rather than the tactical. He would spare no effort to save the hostage — or to hand out final, fiery retribution on the enemy.
But first, he had to find a handle on the situation, something to point him in the right direction. Somehow, somewhere, he knew there had to be a way around the screen of silence. A way inside the problem.
Bolan waited and spent the anxious hours in a constant state of combat readiness, hoping for some word out of Wonderland on the Potomac. When the call came, early on the fourth day, he listened to the disembodied voice of Hal Brognola.
"We've found hen Striker. She's alive."
Bolan heard him out and felt the pieces falling into place around him, giving him the angle that he needed. By the time Brognola broke the telephone link, Bolan had both target and ETA confirmed.
The waiting was all over now.
He would return to the hellgrounds with a vengeance now, carrying his endless war to the enemy doorstep. If he found the hostage less than safe and whole, there would be hellfire enough to go around for everyone concerned.
Bolan began the Bolan Effect.
1
The buyer from Chicago parked his Maserati between two carbon-copy Continentals, backing in to give himself an easy exit. All along the white picket fence, a line of flashy vehicles were parked, some of them with chauffeurs in attendance. The tall man could feel enemy eyes upon him as he left his sportster.
He had seen their roadside defenses, had noted sentries mounted and on foot and closed-circuit cameras stationed every hundred yards along the road to this bogus farm, which concealed a special marketplace. It was impossible to reach the marketplace unnoticed, unidentified, without passing inspection.
A ceiling of gunmetal clouds obscured the sky; lightning danced over Kansas City. The buyer closed his rain jacket and moved across the parking area with brisk strides. He did not expect a challenge here, but the pistol's weight beneath his arm was reassuring.
On unfamiliar ground, he knew it paid to take precautions.
The farm, run by Benny Battaglia, would pass a casual inspection from the ground or air, and it would take a suicide commando to penetrate the carefully prepared camouflage. House, barn and the other clustered outbuildings all presented a serene, pastoral image to the uninitiated.
Benny Battaglia was relatively new to Kansas, even newer to the farming life. He was a city boy in exile, routed from St. Louis by an anti-vice crusade that closed his thriving chain of "escort services" and left him facing indictment. The flight had cost him money and prestige, but he was still a pimp at heart, addicted to the easy life of trafficking in human degradation. With some ready capital and willing contacts, he had found the makings of another empire in the heartland.
The buyer reached his destination and a sentry, clad in faded denims, nodded and passed him on into the barn. A blast of hot air enveloped the big man as he entered.
The inside of the marketplace took his breath away.
The cavernous interior had been converted into something from a pornographic fairy tale. Rows of stalls designed for dairy cattle held a different kind of living merchandise on display for shoppers drifting up and down the aisles. Overhead, the loft had been converted into an observation deck, and spotters armed with automatic rifles kept watchful eyes on the trading floor.
The buyer marked the gunners, mentally recording ranges and angles, but he concentrated on the holding pens. Each contained a pair of young, attractive women. Quickly surveying all the pens, he noticed that the women represented every race and many nationalities. It was a skin display of infinite variety, but every face revealed the same drugged apathy. All the women were naked under the bright fluorescent lights, but each appeared oblivious to scrutiny from men in business suits who moved among them, pausing here and there to comment.
The buyer saw Battaglia approaching, and he moved to greet the master of the marketplace. He took the hand that Benny offered, shook it and suppressed a shudder at the slaver's slimy touch. Benny's smile was cautious, the expression of a crocodile assessing prey.
"Hey, Chicago. Glad you could make it down." Battaglia hesitated, then added, "Guess I didn't catch the name."
The buyer passed a business card. Benny took it and read the single word on it.
Omega.
The final letter of the Greek alphabet.
The end.
Battaglia slowly reversed the business card, and found an ace of spades printed on the flip side. The color left his cheeks as he stared at the card. It took a moment for the mobster to rega
in his voice. "It's been a long time since I saw one of these."
Chicago offered him a frosty smile. "We didn't all go down with Pat and Mike," he said.
"I see."
Battaglia knew that the black ace was a death card and the symbol of the Mafia's elite gestapo. Hand-selected by the legendary Talifero brothers, Pat and Mike, the Aces were a breed apart, inspiring fear among the ranks of the Cosa Nostra. Answering directly to La Commissióne" they could hit a boss without specific orders should the need arise, and they had exercised that ultimate prerogative on more than one occasion.
But the Aces had become endangered species. A crazy Green Beret — that Bolan bastard — had declared a private holy war against the brotherhood, and the syndicate's elite exterminators found themselves on the defensive. Pat and Mike had fallen in the Bolan blitz, their cadres decimated, those remaining scattered to the winds. Rumors of survivors had circulated through the underworld, but Battaglia had never planned on meeting an Ace in person.
The slaver tried to grin. "I guess this ain't no ordinary shopping trip," he said.
"Nothing's ordinary around here, Benny."
"Yeah... well, uh... what can I do for you, Omega?"
"Let me have the tour, Id like to see your operation."
A ripple of concern registered in Battaglia's narrow eyes.
The Black Ace fell in beside Battaglia, keeping pace along the nearest line of stalls. He listened to the nervous monologue without absorbing any of it; he was looking at the women, scanning faces. In their present state, the youthful bodies were pathetic rather than provocative. Other patrons, however, did not share his view; Omega gathered from the scraps of conversation overheard in passing that they liked the show immensely.
The Ace was looking for a special woman, one face in particular.
Battaglia showed him at least half the human inventory before he found her, sharing quarters with an Oriental captive in a corner stall. Omega knew her at a glance. The heavy shadowing around her eyes, her dark hair all tangled did not obscure her classic profile.
He would have known her anywhere.
Omega lingered by the railing, looking at the seated woman. Battaglia continued on a few more steps before realizing he was all alone and talking to himself. The slaver doubled back to join the Ace, his smile confident, assertive. Once again he was the master salesman in a seller's market, moving in to close the deal.
"See something there you like?"
Omega indicated his selection with a nod. "Right here," he said.
Battaglia looked at the Black Ace's choice, and something clicked behind his oval face. The air of confidence, so newly found, was swiftly dissipating. "I can show you something better if you're really in the market," he muttered.
"No," the Ace replied. "I came for her."
The pimp was plainly worried. "I, uh, guess I don't follow you..."
"I guess you're not supposed to, Benny."
Confusion moved up an octave to outright anxiety. Battaglia was picking up vibrations that he seriously did not like. "She's trouble," he informed Omega. "All the way."
The Ace regarded him in silence, his attitude forcing elaboration.
"Listen, she was asking questions, sniffing around. I could have wasted her, but I decided to break even on the deal."
Omega shook his head. "Clumsy, Ben. You been thinking with your prick."
Battaglia stiffened, color flooding back into his cheeks. "Now, wait a second there..."
"You haven't got a second, guy. It's now or never."
Battaglia wanted to reply but found no words.
"It's family business, Benny," the buyer said. "You don't need to know."
Battaglia's caution now jostled with anger, which momentarily won out. "Is that right? She was running down her act on my turf, remember. Seems to me I've got a vested interest."
"Ever stop to figure why she picked your turf?" the Ace asked. "Who's behind it, anyway?"
"I've got a major operation here," Battaglia blustered. "The Feds..."
"Could have bagged you in St. Louis, Benny. Off the record, people wonder why they didn't."
"People? What people?"
"Well, if you have to ask..."
The anger faltered in Battaglia, fell away, and fear was in the saddle now. "You're kidding, right?"
"You've got a lot of friends, Battaglia, but the wind is shifting. It could blow your house down."
"You say."
"Fair enough." The Ace was brushing past him, moving toward the exit. "See you in the papers."
"Hey... well, Jesus, wait a second, will ya?"
Omega hesitated, then swiveled back to face Battaglia.
"I'll need your full cooperation, starting now," he said.
"Okay, okay..."
"The girl," Omega said. "She comes with me."
Battaglia stood silently as if arguing with himself, then spoke at last. "What else?"
"That's it — for now." The Ace checked his wristwatch. "I'm working on a deadline here. They want her back in Chicago tonight."
"Yeah, great." The slaver cleared his throat and tried to sound cooperative. "Let me scare up a dress or something for her."
"Nevermind."
The Ace was shrugging off his rain jacket, moving past Battaglia and then on inside the holding pen. He got the woman on her feet. She moaned as he supported her, with an arm around her slender waist, his free hand guiding naked arms into the jacket sleeves. The rain jacket bottomed out at the very top of her bare thighs, but it was all he had to offer and the Ace was feeling pressed for time. He could feel Battaglia's nervousness; waves of doubt were radiating from the guy.
Omega propped the woman against the railing of the holding pen, and for a fractured second she connected with his gaze. Recognition flickered in her eyes beneath the drooping lids. Then she lost eye contact, wobbling as she tried to stay on her feet. He steered her through the open gate and out to where Battaglia was waiting, an uneasy frown carving furrows in his swarthy face.
The slaver was having second thoughts, working up the nerve to ask another question. Omega saw it coming and took the opportunity to unbutton his sports jacket, making the holstered automatic more accessible. "I guess I'd better make a call," the slaver said, thinking out loud.
"Fine. You got the number there?"
"I know some people in Chicago, sure."
"Get on it, then. Tell them I'll be late because you can't make up your mind."
Battaglia stiffened, clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened. Silent argument still raged in his head, and the strain was showing in his attitude and posture. "Never mind," he spat. "You'd better go."
Omega scowled as he led the woman past her former captor, forcing him to step aside. Moving briskly, almost dragging her along, the Ace was closing on the exit when he caught a glimpse of Benny from the corner of his eye. The slaver was gesturing, summoning a gunner from the sidelines. He saw them huddle and watched the hood dash away — to find a telephone, no doubt.
The sentry at the door let them pass, and in a heartbeat they had cleared the barn. The woman shivered as the chill attacked her exposed thighs. Omega pulled her close against him and kept her moving across the open parking lot. On his flank, a pair of chauffeurs lounging up against a silver Rolls were staring at the woman and whispering. Knowing laughter followed them until they reached the Maserati.
He was helping her into the Maserati's starboard bucket seat when Benny Battaglia, shouting, erupted from the barn with guns in tow. Omega tucked the woman in, closed her door and took his pistol from its sling before he turned and moved away from the car to face the challenge.
His weapon was the Beretta 93-R, equipped with special silencer. Fifteen 9mm steel-jackets filled the magazine in staggered-box configuration, with a sixteenth ready in the firing chamber. The gun was metallurgically altered; thus, the steel jackets did not cause excess wear, reducing accuracy to the level of an "area-type" weapon. On the contrary, the steel-jackets inc
reased chamber pressures to release greater energy and muzzle velocity, hence accuracy. The 93-R was capable of double-action semiautomatic fire, or three-round bursts in fully automatic mode, dispensing death at a cyclic rate of 110 rounds per minute. A genuine machine pistol, the 93-R was, in a marksman's hands, deadly to ranges of 100 yards and more.
Battaglia and his troops were less than fifty yards away.
Omega pivoted, the pistol coming up and out to full extension, locking onto target. Down-range, half a dozen men were clustered at the entrance to the barn. Battaglia was already moving closer. The slaver had found himself a weapon, and was leveling it in the Ace's direction.
Omega tripped the fire-selector switch and squeezed the trigger, rattling off a triple-punch in autofire. Battaglia staggered, breaking stride. His expensive blazer ripped with the stunning impact. Blood spurted from him in a crimson spray.
Behind Battaglia, the gunners were reacting like experienced professionals, unlimbering their weapons and bringing them to bear upon the human target. In another instant they would have him.
Omega squeezed the trigger twice, the muzzle sweeping back and forth. The hollow men were sent diving, sprawling, scattering, their first rounds going high and wild.
The Ace moved out. He went into a shoulder roll across the Maserati's hood and came to earth again beside the driver's door. Another beat and he was at the wheel, firing up the power and open-throttling away before the scattered gunners could recover.
Ahead of him, a chauffeur interposed himself between Omega and the open road. The guy's .45 was up and bucking, heavy slugs impacting on the Maserati's windshield, transforming it to broken crystal. Navigating with his sixth sense, the Ace let his charger drift, acquiring a collision course.
The gunner turned to run, but it was far too late. The bumper took him low and hard, rolling him up across the sloping hood; an elbow hit the windshield, safety glass turned to pebbles, and the guy was gone, an airborne sack of broken bones.
Sold for Slaughter Page 1
