Interception

Interception
Don Pendleton

The city of Split, Croatia, is a multinational den of thieves, where conspiracy, corruption and criminal cells rival for profit and power.Divergent trails of bootlegged intelligence and black-market rumors put Mack Bolan on its violent streets, looking for a prize in stolen tech masterminded by a Russian mob oligarch and his Triad assassins. Forging a trail of blood and bodies, the Executioner unleashes his own brand of hellfire to stop global traffickers from doing what they do best–selling death. Fully aware of the mounting odds on all fronts, Bolan is betting this mission on surviving. Again.

Bolan cocked an eyebrow. “The Company asked for help?”

Brognola shrugged. “Their best operatives are running in Pakistan and Iraq these days.”

“So I’m supposed to enter a section of the city of Split that is a law unto itself. A place where everyone is pretending to be something they aren’t. Then I start following up leads to find two people who have disappeared, but whose disappearances may or may not be linked.”

Brognola nodded. “Yeah. That about sums it up. But don’t forget, if anyone suspects you’re an American agent, there are about one hundred intelligence and terrorist cells who’ll try to kill you.”

Bolan leaned back. “When do I leave?”

Interception

Mack Bolan

Don Pendleton

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

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nathan Meyer for his contribution to this work.

It is not the critic who counts, nor the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly;…who knows great enthusiasms, great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.

—Theodore Roosevelt,

(1858–1919)

I’m not one to stand idly by while the bullies of the world intimidate the weak. It’s not in my nature—nor will it ever be. I’ll take my last breath defending America.

—Mack Bolan

To the men and women who defend our nation

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

PROLOGUE

In Croat the name of the suburb was Trg Brace Radic, which meant Old Town. It was underpopulated, filled with ancient structures and isolated from the more urban areas of modern Split and in the shadow of the venerate Milesi Palace.

At that time of night it was a place where people minded their own business and kept to themselves. Inside an abandoned, rundown house Mack Bolan stood facing two men. One of the men was Andrew Vasili, a Croat intelligence official turned mercenary information broker, and the second was his bodyguard.

Vasili opened the envelope Mack Bolan had just handed him. The man ran a thick thumb over the neatly bundled packets of euros. He grunted to himself and nodded, satisfied with what he saw. He turned to his bodyguard and nodded again in a single, sharp motion.