Lethal Vengeance

by Don Pendleton

  MISSION: PAYBACK

  When Stony Man chief Hal Brognola is kidnapped, Mack Bolan vows to find him and wreak explosive vengeance on those responsible. But first he must find his shadowy enemy. For deep in the drug cartel hellscape of Ciudad Juárez, Hal is prisoner of the city’s most legendary and secretive serial killer. To uncover his identity, Bolan wages war on Ciudad’s biggest narco-traffickers, battling their merciless soldados and sending their empires up in flames. But with the clock ticking down, the Executioner must face a cunning foe in an arena where justice will only be found in total annihilation.

  A stream of cartel soldiers burst from the building.

  When one of the gunners removed a cell phone from his pocket, Bolan drilled him with a single 5.56 mm round, then ripped a series of three-round bursts along the line of gunmen limned by a streetlight.

  The Executioner sent another grenade downrange, an incendiary round that blew on impact, loosing flames that spread from wall to wall, rolling through the open doorway, setting fire to bodies lying on the pavement.

  He could have kept on firing, making sure that everyone within his line of sight was dead or dying, but he was literally burning up Brognola’s time now, painfully aware that the odds of finding him declined precipitately after twenty-four hours.

  If he wasn’t dead already, Brognola had roughly two hours left. El Psicópata didn’t keep his prey alive for any longer than it took to butcher them. But Brognola didn’t fit the killer’s victim profile, which meant there were no rules.

  All Bolan could do was put the pedal to the metal and keep rolling on, full speed ahead. And God help anyone who stood in his way…

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  #385 Recovery Force

  #386 Crucial Intercept

  #387 Powder Burn

  #388 Final Coup

  #389 Deadly Command

  #390 Toxic Terrain

  #391 Enemy Agents

  #392 Shadow Hunt

  #393 Stand Down

  #394 Trial by Fire

  #395 Hazard Zone

  #396 Fatal Combat

  #397 Damage Radius

  #398 Battle Cry

  #399 Nuclear Storm

  #400 Blind Justice

  #401 Jungle Hunt

  #402 Rebel Trade

  #403 Line of Honor

  #404 Final Judgment

  #405 Lethal Diversion

  #406 Survival Mission

  #407 Throw Down

  #408 Border Offensive

  #409 Blood Vendetta

  #410 Hostile Force

  #411 Cold Fusion

  #412 Night’s Reckoning

  #413 Double Cross

  #414 Prison Code

  #415 Ivory Wave

  #416 Extraction

  #417 Rogue Assault

  #418 Viral Siege

  #419 Sleeping Dragons

  #420 Rebel Blast

  #421 Hard Targets

  #422 Nigeria Meltdown

  #423 Breakout

  #424 Amazon Impunity

  #425 Patriot Strike

  #426 Pirate Offensive

  #427 Pacific Creed

  #428 Desert Impact

  #429 Arctic Kill

  #430 Deadly Salvage

  #431 Maximum Chaos

  #432 Slayground

  #433 Point Blank

  #434 Savage Deadlock

  #435 Dragon Key

  #436 Perilous Cargo

  #437 Assassin’s Tripwire

  #438 The Cartel Hit

  #439 Blood Rites

  #440 Killpath

  #441 Murder Island

  #442 Syrian Rescue

  #443 Uncut Terror

  #444 Dark Savior

  #445 Final Assault

  #446 Kill Squad

  #447 Missile Intercept

  #448 Terrorist Dispatch

  #449 Combat Machines

  #450 Omega Cult

  #451 Fatal Prescription

  #452 Death List

  #453 Rogue Elements

  #454 Enemies Within

  #455 Chicago Vendetta

  #456 Thunder Down Under

  #457 Dying Art

  #458 Killing Kings

  #459 Stealth Assassin

  #460 Lethal Vengeance

  LETHAL VENGEANCE

  Nor is there any law more just than that he who has plotted death shall perish by his own plot.

  —Ovid

  I speak the only language predators understand. I fight fire with fire, and damn the consequences.

  —Mack Bolan

  For Special Agent Samuel S. Hicks. Drug Enforcement Administration

  End of Watch: November 19, 2008

  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 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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  El Paso, Texas

  The big man—stocky, fiftysomething, with gray hair that nearly matched the color of his suit—moved easily along a second-story hallway in the Gateway Rio Grande Hotel, a plastic bucket in one hand, the key to room 209 in the other.

  He was tired at half-past midnight and was running late for bed. Another round of meetings started bright and early in the morning, but the dinner he’d consumed—tamales, enchiladas, rice and beans, with one too many beers—had his stomach grumbling and he needed something carbonated for relief.

 
When he’d achieved that, he still had to call his wife. It was an hour later in DC, damn it, but he knew she’d be waiting up and worrying until he had her on the line, telling her everything was fine and coming off as planned.

  The conference, on balance, hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected, but his time was better spent on other things. He’d be relieved to land in Washington again on Saturday, and his report to the US Attorney General could wait a day or two.

  It wasn’t like the meetings would have any real-world impact, after all—not on his job, at least. He would have skipped the whole thing but his orders from the new guy running Justice had been unequivocal: show up and make us proud.

  When the last USAG had bailed under fire, his new, improved replacement fell into the job without adequate briefings on all aspects of his post. When the big man returned to Washington, he would correct that oversight.

  The icemaker and vending machines were right where the floorplan in his room had promised they would be, tucked into a niche at the corridor’s west end. He filled the plastic bucket first then picked a can of soda minus the caffeine and dropped the can into the ice. Because the niche obscured his vision, he was turning with his hands full when he spotted the two burly strangers in cheap suits blocking his path.

  Unfriendly faces set off mental alarms, but the big man still forced a smile and said, “Excuse me, eh?”

  They both rushed him at once, the bruiser on his left cursing as ice and a cold can of soda hit him in the face.

  The big man fought in silence, wishing he’d brought his sidearm currently locked inside his room’s small safe. He got some licks in, but he didn’t see the needle coming until it was in his neck.

  The bright world did a rapid fade to black.

  Ciudad Juárez, Mexico

  When he came around, the big man found that he was seated in a straight-backed wooden chair, no cushion on its seat. His neck hurt from the hypodermic needle and his brain was fuzzy, but he reckoned that would pass. A burlap sack over his head smelled like potatoes and prevented him from seeing anything, but from the lighting and the sound of voices, he could tell he was in a room somewhere.

  His shoulders ached because his arms were pinned behind him, zip-tied based on the chafing on his wrists. His ankles were likewise secured to the chair’s front legs. Aside from shifting slightly on the chair, or maybe tipping it over, he couldn’t move.

  Three men were talking not too far away. They spoke Spanish, but that was fine. The big man knew enough of the language to get by.

  “It went all right?” one man asked.

  “Yes. We’re all here, eh?” another answered.

  “He fought a little,” a third stated, “but nothing to it.”

  “Good. Let’s get a look at him,” the first one ordered.

  One of them removed the burlap hood, revealing a cheap room with shabby furniture and three men ranged before him. Two of them had jumped him back at his hotel. The third guy, clearly, was in charge.

  “Shit!” the leader blurted. “Who in the hell is this?”

  “The guy you sent us for?” The way Number Two said it, sounding shaky now, told the bound man the boss had been expecting someone else.

  “Idiots! When I ask you who this is, I want a name, understand?”

  The one to the leader’s left began to say, “Captain, we—”

  Captain X lashed out and hit him with a stunning backhand. “Now you want to use my rank and name?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “I’ve never seen this gringo in my life,” the leader snapped at them. “Did you at least look in his wallet?”

  The bound man could feel it in his left hip pocket, pressed into his butt cheek.

  “Cap—I mean, sir,” the man to the leader’s right chimed in, “he matches the description you gave us.”

  “Description? You didn’t even check to see he was the right one?”

  “Once he started fighting—”

  “Shut up! If we get through this, you’ll be lucky if I let you cover traffic in Chiapas!”

  Traffic? Playing deaf, the bound man realized two things. First, these were cops of some kind who had snatched him. Second, he was almost certainly in Mexico.

  He flexed his wrists, confirming what he’d feared. His watch was gone, either torn off during the fight or stolen while he was unconscious. With no clock, he couldn’t tell how long he’d been knocked out or how far his abductors could’ve traveled in the meantime.

  And if they’d been dumb enough to snatch him by mistake...

  One of the flunkies moved around behind the bound man’s chair and found his wallet, handing it off to their boss. The guy in charge opened it, stared at the bound man’s ID, furious color rising in his face.

  “‘Justice Department, Washington, DC,’” he read aloud. “Can either of you two idiots think back and remember who I sent you for?”

  “The name?” one of the stooges asked, proving his low IQ.

  “The name, the agency he worked for? Anything?” the leader raged.

  “It was the DEA, sir,” said Number Three.

  “Correct! It was the DEA. And now you bring me what? Some pencil-pusher out of the Attorney General’s office!”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, idiot! I ought to kill both of you where you stand.”

  They edged away from him, the slightly braver of the two nearly whispering, “What should we do, sir?”

  “You mean before the FBI and every other department of the US government starts looking for him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s only one thing left we can do, thanks to your incompetence.”

  “We’ll do it, absolutely. Anything.” The barely smarter of the two was almost whining.

  “You two will do nothing. I must call El Psicópata.”

  The Psychopath.

  Without a doubt, their bound captive knew that wasn’t good.

  Chapter One

  El Paso International Airport

  Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, stood a few yards off from Runway 12, watching as the Learjet 40 approached from the east. The aircraft descended to a textbook-perfect landing, its pilot throttling back on the twin Honeywell engines. It taxied toward him, gradually slowing to a halt. The engines switched off before its exit door opened behind the cockpit, on the port side, and a built-in set of steps unfolded to the tarmac.

  Barbara Price came out to meet him. Wearing a tailored pantsuit and “sensible” shoes, she barely showed the stress of flying 1,900 miles—nearly the Learjet’s top range—from Stony Man Farm in Virginia to “The City with a Legend,” as El Paso called itself.

  Bolan and Price were more than friends and colleagues, but they kept the greeting to a handshake. He followed her back to the plane, mounting the steps behind her to its cabin.

  “You made good time,” he said as they sat facing each other with a folding table in between.

  “No time to waste,” she said, not asking how he’d beat her there when he was coming from Los Angeles. He’d covered less than half the distance she had, and Price would know that automatically.

  “So how bad is it?” Bolan asked.

  “It doesn’t get much worse.”

  “Tell me.”

  He knew some of it from their brief phone conversation hours earlier. Hal Brognola, director of the clandestine organization known as Stony Man Farm and a head honcho in the Department Justice, had vanished from his hotel in El Paso the previous night, the next-to-last day of a law enforcement conference on terrorism and drug trafficking across the Tex-Mex border.

  He knew El Paso was the Lone Star State’s sixth largest city, covering 256 square miles, with some 680,000 year-round residents. Across the Rio Grande, it faced Ciudad Juárez, Mexico’s eighth largest city, smaller in size than El Paso bu
t with 2.5 million full-time inhabitants. Together they formed the second largest binational metropolitan area on America’s southern border, after San Diego-Tijuana.

  “Okay,” Price said. “I told you he was taken out of his hotel, and that’s confirmed from evidence recovered from the scene. We have his fingerprints on a hotel ice bucket and soda can he dropped when the kidnappers grabbed him. Local cops found his room key, same place, no evidence that anybody got inside the room after they lifted him.”

  “Security cameras?” Bolan inquired.

  “One long view of the hallway, from the other end. Two men, likely Latino, but no hits from facial recognition software yet. One of them jabbed him with a hypo. We’re assuming it was just a sedative.”

  “Because why poison him and carry him away?”

  “Exactly. When they took him out, another CCTV feed picked up a shot of the abductors hooding him and securing his arms and legs before putting him in a car trunk. No luck with an ID on the car, although it turned up on a traffic cam two blocks away, heading south. Stolen license plates. We assume the car was hot, as well.”

  “Headed for Mexico.”

  Bolan already knew four bridges spanned the Rio Grande between El Paso and Ciudad Juárez: the Bridge of the Americas, Ysleta-Zaragoza International Bridge, Paso del Norte Bridge and Stanton Street Bridge. Combined, they permitted some twenty-three million vehicular passages yearly. Once across the border, southbound traffic could go anywhere in Mexico.

  Brognola had been gone for thirteen hours. He could’ve traveled 780 miles within that time, at sixty miles per hour, but smart money said he’d probably been taken to a hideout tucked away in Ciudad Juárez itself.

  “Who knew he’d be at the conference?” Bolan asked.

  “Starting from the top,” Price said, “the AG who assigned him to it—over Hal’s objection, I might add. Kelly, his secretary, would’ve made the travel bookings. Then we’ve got the folks who organized the conference and the various official delegates from Justice, ICE, the DEA, likely a couple from the CIA pretending to be someone else. That’s ninety-five registered delegates, not counting Hal. Add on hotel staff, from managers to housekeepers. The Bureau will be grilling all of them, but...”