Sabotage

Sabotage
Don Pendleton

?A rash of killings among returning American soldiers puts Mack Bolan on the front line of a conspiracy to destabilize the U.S. military at home and abroad.?His Russian-born, American-made enemy has infiltrated and co-opted the country's largest radical peace organization, spurring waves of antiwar protests and turning members into mercenaries willing to use violence against veterans of the Middle East conflicts. Media mogul Yuri Trofimov has the power and influence to deliver a propaganda campaign via television straight into America's living room–and enough money to buy hired guns and the cooperation of a corrupt congressman. Despite the sensitive nature of the crisis and the determination of the U.S. government to stop the atrocities, Bolan's doing what a dedicated warrior does best: search and destroy.

“It is my hope that we as a nation can work through this.”

Trofimov was somber. “But I will not lie to you. It will be difficult. We will have to make some hard decisions about our standing in the world. We will have to come to terms with the barbarism that lurks, even now, within our armed forces. This will not sit well with many of us, but I know we are up to the challenge. For TBT News, this is Yuri Trofimov.”

Schrader switched off the miniset in disgust. “Can you believe that?”

“What happened?” Bolan asked.

“They’re reporting that a bunch of our guys attacked a village in Afghanistan,” Schrader said, “totally unprovoked. Burned the place to the ground. Shot women and children, and the news report says TBT has a videotape with our guys doing it and laughing about it.”

Bolan’s jaw clenched. Things were getting ugly. And they were about to get uglier.

Sabotage

Mack Bolan

Don Pendleton

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

If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.

—Sun Tzu

The enemy doesn’t play by the rules. He will ruthlessly commit murder and a hundred other crimes. The enemy won’t stop, doesn’t feel pity and never feels shame. The enemy has to be engaged, and overwhelmed with superior force. That’s where I come in. That’s what I do.

—Mack Bolan

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 TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

The graveside service was drawing to a close. Family members paid their respects in turns, filing past the casket as it sat poised on its winch straps. Even for a funeral, the mood was grim; the body language of the mourners was tense, brittle with anticipation. That much was obvious as Mack Bolan, the man known to some as the Executioner, watched through a pair of compact Zeiss binoculars. He knelt on a hill in an older part of the cemetery, surrounded by grave markers that were, in some cases, almost a century old. Partially hidden behind a gnarled weeping willow that stood, incongruously, among the oldest of the tombstones, Bolan monitored the narrow, paved access road leading through the cemetery and past the temporary awning sheltering the mourners below.

The soldier checked his watch. If intel from Brognola and Stony Man Farm panned out, it could happen any minute now.

He didn’t need to check the weapons he carried; they were as much part of him as his hands, after so many missions. The custom-tuned and suppressed Beretta 93-R pistol was holstered in its customary place under his left arm. The massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle rode in a holster on his right hip. Across his chest, he wore an olive-drab canvas war bag on its shoulder strap, over the close-fitting combat blacksuit. His pants were tucked into well-worn combat boots. His battle gear, including a Boker Applegate combat dagger clipped in a Kydex sheath in the appendix position, was concealed under his black M-65 field jacket. On the ground near his right knee, a Pelican case waited, the customized Remington 700 rifle inside another work of art by Stony Man Farm’s armorer.

Mack Bolan knelt, watched and waited, a black-clad and silent wraith watching over the final resting place of so many Americans.

The Executioner reflected upon what had brought him to this place. The scrambled phone call from Brognola had left a taste like ashes in his mouth.

“Someone,” the man from Justice had said, calling from his office in Washington, “is killing our soldiers.”

“I’m listening.”