Blood Vendetta. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Human Target
An American hacker becomes target number one after she accesses the account of a Russian mob boss, revealing his organization’s terror plot against the U.S. by taking out its satellite system. She knows two things: they’re coming for her and she’s out of her league.
Having the intel the hacker stumbled into could prevent millions of deaths, and Mack Bolan is determined to find her before the Russians do. There’s only one problem. No one knows what she looks like. And when one of her friends compromises her location in London, the Executioner knows he must make his final move and end this high-stakes game of hide and seek...one way or the other.
The corpse of the gun-wielding rider was flung from the motorcycle
Bolan thrust himself to the side, rolled when he hit the ground and came up on one knee, his ice-blue eyes sweeping the terrain for more threats. A short volley from his M4 took down two more gunmen.
As he stood, Bolan loaded an HE round into the grenade launcher. He set his sights on a single-story building. An undulating glow of flames was visible inside the structure through the windows. A pair of bay doors that made up half of the building’s facade were buckling from the onslaught of the flames.
The handful of guards, who had been trying to hose down the structure, abandoned their work when they saw Bolan and began grabbing for their weapons.
He noticed another man climbing frantically into the cab of a tanker truck and, judging by his urgency, Bolan guessed the truck wasn’t filled with corn syrup.
The Executioner leveled the launcher and fired.
Blood Vendetta
Don Pendleton
Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
1929—1968
Sometimes to get justice, you need to go around the law.
Is this right or wrong? That’s not for me to say. I am
no judge—I am the Executioner.
—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
Tim Tresslar for his contribution to this work.
Contents
Prologue
The soft, steady beeping roused her from a light sleep.
For a half second, she thought it was her alarm clock, waking her for work. The bank! Jesus, she needed to get up!
Her eyes snapped open. Reality sank in and, like an unseen hand, it jerked her upright in her bed. The lamp on her bedside table flickered on and off in time with the beeping.
By the time she threw aside her blankets, her heart was pounding in her chest, her mouth dry with fear.
Muttering a curse, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, hauled herself upright and padded across the floor to a laptop computer that stood on top of the white pine dresser. The computer, which was hooked into her alarm system, was in sleep mode. She punched a couple of buttons on the keyboard and the screen brightened. A window with a layout of each floor of the two-story home was displayed on the screen. A flashing red dot indicated a tripped sensor at the rear door.
Turning, she grabbed a pair of black denim jeans that were hung over the back of a chair and slipped them on, followed by a black turtleneck and sneakers.
It might be no big deal, she told herself as she laced up her shoes. The house was supposed to be empty. Maybe it was some teens looking for a place to drink or screw. Or a homeless man looking for a warm place to spend the night.
Or maybe someone had come for her. The thought