Desert Fallout

Desert Fallout
Don Pendleton

The discovery of deadly biological poisons and mass slaughter at an archaeological dig in Egypt puts a previously hidden enemy in Bolan's crosshairs.It begins hot, fast and bloody as Bolan unearths a mysterious pretender to the Egyptian throne who is harnessing the bloodlust of terrorist groups to launch a Middle East endgame. Playing all factions–Muslim, Jewish and Christian–against the others, the self-proclaimed Eternal Pharaoh has the ambition and the army to unleash a storm of violence in the region that promises all-out war. This dark enemy and his predecessors have sown the seeds of their magnificent coup for generations, but never anticipated an enemy so righteous in his fury–a relentless, implacable hunter called the Executioner.

“Neither of us have what we want,” Bolan said

Masozi tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Mubarak had a weapons stash that he was parceling out to us,” Bolan stated. “We want our gear.”

The Shabaab leader turned to Kamau. “Does this sound like a good idea?”

“I’m just in this to get some payback. Those were my men murdered by the sneaky bastard.”

Bolan realized that something bigger had just replaced his mission to destroy the Shabaab militia under Masozi. Something dark and ominous threatened more than just the shipping lanes around the Horn of Africa.

The incinerated remains of jars full of ricin seed, buried in the collapsed storeroom, were the portent of an apocalyptic threat….

Desert Fallout

Mack Bolan

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

Asclepius, why do you weep? Egypt herself will be persuaded to deeds much wickeder than these, and she will be steeped in evils far worse. A land once holy, most loving of divinity, by reason of her reverence the only land on earth where the neteru (gods) settled, she who taught holiness and fidelity will be an example of utter [un]belief.

—Hermetica,

Asclepius III: 25

No nation is immune to the tragedy of being fooled into wicked deeds. But it is for the sake of those who still believe in justice that I never rest. My fidelity to them will never waver, and I shall defend their faith.

—Mack Bolan

To Fe. Patience, compassion and wisdom are gifts that grow the more you give them away.

Thank you, sir.

CONTENTS

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 ONE

The southern coast of Somalia

This was Africa.

That phrase popped into Mack Bolan’s mind as his lean, powerful frame sliced through the air over the hood of a rusty automobile, only moments ahead of the rattle of an AK-47 firing on full automatic. The fender and engine block stopped the swarm of rifle rounds looking to rend the Executioner’s flesh. He wouldn’t have more than a moment’s respite, but he made the most of it, reloading his Beretta 93-R and closing the slide on a fresh round.

The phrase was a cynical response to the violence that stalked through the continent, a place where life was cheap, and the forces of Animal Man reigned supremely. A child, starving despite tons of food in a nearby port? This was Africa. A family chopped to pieces by machete-wielding sociopaths? This was Africa. One violent government replaced by scum just as murderous? It often happened.

Bolan didn’t believe that any place in the world was more doomed than any other, that innocent people couldn’t be saved from the forces of greed and misery.

The Somali gunmen who had targeted him were fast and ferocious, already flanking the automobile to get a line of fire on the big American who had infiltrated their stronghold. One of the gunmen pivoted his AK to take out Bolan, but the Beretta machine pistol snarled, ripping a line of 9 mm bullets into the man from sternum to throat. The pirate stopped as if he hit an invisible wall, and the rifleman behind him staggered wildly, tumbling as he collided with the still-standing corpse. Bolan whirled and with one smooth movement pulled a knife from its sheath on his battle harness. The wicked, double-bladed, spear-point weapon gleamed in the sunlight, the only warning that another of the Somali killers had before the six inches of merciless steel plunged through the fragile bone triangle between the eyes.