Clean Sweep
When two U.S. agents are executed and a third goes missing, the government can no longer deny that one of its units has been compromised. A mole is passing on sensitive information to an international human trafficking ring, putting the agency’s people in jeopardy. To plug the leak and rescue the missing operative, Mack Bolan will have to go in under the radar and take on the crime syndicate solo.
But Mack’s not the only one looking for the missing man. The syndicate has hired a professional “cleaner” to finish the job. Trained to kill and armed with unlimited resources, Bolan’s opponent is definitely a tough—and debatably a worthy—adversary. But the Executioner has his own plans for cleaning up the organization, and he’s going to start at the top of the chain.
Any advantage he might have had was wiped out now
Bolan’s foray into enemy territory was no longer soft probe. He was going to have to fight his way out if he wanted to stay in the game.
Picking up the sound of raised voices close by, he heard the scrape of boots on concrete and figured there were two, three guards at the most. He flattened himself against the front wall of the house, the big Desert Eagle leveled and ready.
His guess had been correct. Three armed men came into sight, bunched close as they cleared the building. Bolan let them step into full view before he opened fire.
The Desert Eagle thundered in the close confines. Bolan emptied the magazine, his calculated shots on track, sending the trio of would-be shooters down in a bloody tangle.
Bolan jammed his weapon back into the holster and freed the 93-R. He needed to maintain his pace, not give the opposition any opportunity to gather themselves. His sudden appearance had already disturbed their equilibrium.
The Executioner had to keep up the mood.
Mack Bolan: The Executioner
#335 Blood Vector
#336 Homeland Terror
#337 Tropic Blast
#338 Nuclear Reaction
#339 Deadly Contact
#340 Splinter Cell
#341 Rebel Force
#342 Double Play
#343 Border War
#344 Primal Law
#345 Orange Alert
#346 Vigilante Run
#347 Dragon’s Den
#348 Carnage Code
#349 Firestorm
#350 Volatile Agent
#351 Hell Night
#352 Killing Trade
#353 Black Death Reprise
#354 Ambush Force
#355 Outback Assault
#356 Defense Breach
#357 Extreme Justice
#358 Blood Toll
#359 Desperate Passage
#360 Mission to Burma
#361 Final Resort
#362 Patriot Acts
#363 Face of Terror
#364 Hostile Odds
#365 Collision Course
#366 Pele’s Fire
#367 Loose Cannon
#368 Crisis Nation
#369 Dangerous Tides
#370 Dark Alliance
#371 Fire Zone
#372 Lethal Compound
Don Pendleton
Hostile Force
Do all the good you can. By all the means you can. In all the ways you can. In all the places you can. At all the times you can. To all the people you can. As long as ever you can.
—John Wesley
Founder of Methodism
1703—1791
By my efforts I will wage my War Everlasting, dedicated to those who have been, and who are being, delivered pain and suffering by those who profit from misery. They walk upright. They talk with human voices. But they will never, ever be human and are to be denied pity. And until my last breath I will seek them out and crush them into the earth.
—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 com-mand 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.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.
Contents
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 1
Mack Bolan had never been one to shrug off his responsibilities. His commitment to those he had shared experiences with in the past remained firm. When Bolan picked up a familiar name in a dossier the Stony Man Farm computer team had downloaded, he delved into the report and his suspicions took form and developed into a deep concern.
A combined U.S./U.K./European operation, an investigation into Organized Crime run by the customs services of the concerned countries, had been compromised. Somewhere within the agencies involved there was a leak. As the operation was targeting international OrgCrime with criminal conspiracies, the interagency involvement was ripe for problems.
Two men were already dead—an American agent and his German counterpart. One more man had gone missing.
It was the missing agent’s name that drew Bolan’s attention.
Ethan Sorin, U.K. Customs and Excise.
Mack Bolan had Sorin as a short-term partner during a previous mission. Sorin had been wounded during the course of the investigation. Bolan recalled the man as a good ally in that short time.
Bolan understood the problems the agencies were having, because he understood how OrgCrime worked. It was the modern-day equivalent of the old-time Mafia—high-level criminal activity for high profit. Nothing was sacred. If it brought in profit and increased the overall power of the criminals, they would work it to the limit. Bolan als
o knew there was only one way to deal with the hyenas: go for the throat. Do it to them first and do not let up until the head is severed from the body.
As Bolan read the dossier, the more he became aware of the reach of the criminals. The interagency group had uncovered some of the OrgCrime involvement: human trafficking, drug and weapon trading, stolen-car rackets and prostitution on a wide scale. With some of their dealings being closely scrutinized, the OrgCrime mob had used its influence and insider knowledge to block investigations. Violence and intimidation. Bribery. These people used any method necessary to protect their business.
With the killings and the disappearance of an agency agent, the interagency force found itself at an impasse. Until they could source the leak, they couldn’t make any important decisions for fear that they might be intercepted.
Bolan’s interest was heightened by the problem and the missing agent. He could not ignore the details about Ethan Sorin. The Brit’s background detailed his return to the U.K. following the mission with Bolan and his transfer to U.K. Customs. There was also mention of the fact that although both his parents were dead he had a sister.
Sorin had been injured on that mission with Bolan because he had sided with the American, and, Bolan being Bolan, he couldn’t distance himself from that. He had no deep-seated guilt, just an acceptance of responsibility.
Bolan asked Kurtzman to gather all the data he could on the IA—the interagency—its people and background, and also known associates within the OrgCrime group. He asked Brognola to fix him up with a flight to London and to supply him with any contacts the Fed could locate.
“You could upset a lot of people if you step into this,” Hal Brognola had said.
“I hope so,” the Executioner replied.
“I’m not talking about just the perps.”
“Neither am I, Hal. Two agents are dead. They deserve something to be done.”
“And Sorin?” Brognola asked.
“And Sorin,” Bolan said. “He helped me out once. Took bullets that could have killed him. Now he needs help.”
Brognola sighed. He understood. Mack Bolan carried a big serving of loyalty for those he called friends. Nothing he waved around like a banner, just a quiet truth he exposed from time to time. No fuss. No fanfare. Just the essence of the man. It was the reason others saw him as someone they could naturally trust.
The other side of the coin was the Executioner. The man who stood against injustice. Against true evil. The man who faced his enemies and brought them down with the cold efficiency of the warrior he was.
“Okay, Mack,” Brognola said. “We’ll be here if you need us.”
Bolan smiled. “Hell, I know that.”
Chapter 2
Greg Henning, former antiterrorist operative, had worked on a mission with David McCarter, the Phoenix Force commander, getting himself wounded in the process. His injuries had compromised his ability to perform with his old unit so he had been transferred to the U.K. Customs Service. Henning was philosophical about the move. In his own words, he was still fighting the bad guys.
“Jack said to send you his best,” Bolan said.
Jack Coyle was one of McCarter’s cover names.
“He called to say you’d be in touch,” Henning said. “With Jack’s past record I know you haven’t called to ask for a charity donation.”
Bolan smiled, trying to imagine McCarter’s description of him.
“Are we safe to talk?”
“Now I know you’re a friend of Jack’s. And yes, this is a secure burn phone. No one listening in and no record of the call.”
“Ethan Sorin. Any idea where he is? Or if he’s still alive?”
“You don’t waste time,” Henning said.
“My people picked up background on your problems. Told me all I needed to know.”
“I know about his injury. It’s why he was sent back to the U.K.” Henning gave a dry chuckle. “Last time Jack was here and I got pulled into his case I ended up in hospital, too. What is it with you blokes? Does everyone who works with you get shot?”
“Not all the time,” Bolan said. “You were working terrorism then. Now you’re on the OrgCrime beat.”
“A career change,” Henning said. “What can I say.”
Bolan didn’t pursue the matter.
“If you’re up to speed,” Henning said, “you have as much information as we do. Two of Sorin’s team were executed. Can’t call it anything else. The bullets were recovered and matched to other killings linked to the mob. But that’s all we can be certain of. Now Sorin’s disappeared and he hasn’t been in touch since. You may have read that we seem to have someone in the agency passing along information?”
“We worked that out.”
“Sorin was in the know. Which is most likely why he won’t make direct contact. Just before his disappearance he sent a message to say his team had got their hands on data that would go a long way toward breaking the mob. He was going to bring it in. Next thing we knew his team had been hot and Sorin had dropped out of sight.”
“You’ve got a rotten apple in the barrel.”
Henning sighed, a sound of frustration and resignation.
“Same happened with my last assignment. It was why I got myself shot. On my own doorstep. Bastard was waiting for me. And here we are again. Another son of a bitch selling us out. What do you think? Am I lucky, or what?”
“Greg, you do what you can with the cards you’re dealt. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Okay, self-pity over. What can I do for you, Cooper?” he asked, using Bolan’s cover name.
“I’m dealing myself in for Ethan and your agency. If you can help, fine. If it goes against your principles I can respect that, too.”
“If you can do something about these buggers you have my vote. What do you need?”
“I want to start cutting into the mob’s dealings. Show them they can be hurt. Won’t be the first time I’ve come up against these people. The only way to get their notice is to hit them where they’ll feel it.”
“One of our problems is we can’t swing into action at a moment’s notice. Takes organizing. Maybe this is where you can move without waiting.”
“I’m listening.”
“I have a source. He’s been feeding me information for a few years. Always genuine. He came to me yesterday and offered me a tip about the mob bringing in a container of merchandise from Europe.”
“What kind of merchandise?” Bolan asked.
“The live kind,” Henning said. “Human-trafficking. One of the mob’s more lucrative sidelines.”
Bolan had experienced this vile trade before. Captured human beings were sold into virtual slavery to be used and abused in various ways: prostitution, illegal labor, pornography. Drugged and beaten and subjugated. The poor wretches were treated like cattle by their own kind.
“Will your guy deal with me?” Bolan asked.
“He will if I tell him to. And pay him.”
“Greg, set it up. I’ll meet your man and he can deliver me to the drop. Let’s make these bastards stand up to be counted.”
* * *
HENNING’S INFORMANT was a forty-year-old named Joey Ballantine. A lean, hungry-eyed man with a nervous disposition and a battered, paint-faded Jaguar saloon. The car might have looked ancient but its mechanics were in top condition. A little like Ballantine. Despite his bedraggled appearance the man was sharp and didn’t miss a trick.
“Nice bloke, Mr. Henning,” he said as he drove Bolan out of London and onto the route that would take them to their destination. “Treats me right. Always pays on the dot and he looks after me if I have any problems. Upset me when I heard he’d been shot that one time. Pretty close thing, too. But he pulled out of it. He’s a hard man, but fair. When my sister’s b
oy got himself into trouble with the law it was Mr. Henning who got it all sorted. Even helped get the lad a job. Yeah, he’s a great bloke.”
Bolan made no comment. He simply sat and watched the scenery flashing by. He had no idea where they were now, London had disappeared a while ago. He read a few road signs, but none meant much to him.
Ballantine had picked him up a few hundred yards down the street from Bolan’s hotel. The man had then answered Bolan’s questions about the container with sharp, to-the-point replies.
“You’re certain about everything?”
Ballantine nodded, not offended by Bolan’s inquiry. “I always double-check my sources, Mr. Cooper. If I slip up and pass along bad information it isn’t going to be helpful to anyone. I lose my credibility, I’m finished. And the wrong people, yourself included, might get hurt. Can’t have that.”
They arrived at their destination with time to spare. Ballantine pulled the Jaguar to a stop. They were on the coast, in an area that had a desolate, empty look to it. Abandoned industrial buildings led to the water’s edge. Tall, rusting cranes stood in acres of cracked, weed-sprouting concrete littered with detritus.
A sudden squall of rain hit them, coming in off the sea. Steady and chilled, it suited Bolan’s mood.
“Years ago this used to be a busy dock. Never as big as some others, but it paid its way. Now it’s only used by small freight companies as a facility for container traffic.” Ballantine smiled. “A lot of illegal stuff finds its way through along this part of the coast.”
They stepped out of the Jaguar.
Under his long topcoat Bolan was clad in his blacksuit. It had brought a brief moment of interest from Ballantine but nothing else. Henning had told him to deliver Bolan to the site and not to ask questions. Bolan’s ordnance was in a backpack.
“See where the containers are stacked,” Ballantine said, pointing beyond the sagging wire-link fence. “Three long storage warehouses next to them. Dock Two is where the ship will be moored. She’s called The Wanderer. That’s where a container will be craned onto a trailer and hauled away. I didn’t get where the delivery point is. My source wasn’t able to find out.”
Hostile Force Page 1
