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Blood Rites
Don Pendleton
BAD BLOODA gun battle between rival gangs terrorizes shoppers at a Miami mall, but Mack Bolan knows that cleaning up the mess in Florida is just the beginning. One gang's main operation leads back to Jamaica, where its drug trafficking business is flourishing. And so is the practice of voodoo and human sacrifice.Infiltrating the gang on its own territory is a deadly challenge. With most of the island on the cartel's payroll or too afraid to come forward, Bolan's only ally is a Kingston police officer. But no matter the odds, the Executioner will do whatever it takes to bring down the drug lord and his army of killers.
BAD BLOOD
A gun battle between rival gangs terrorizes shoppers at a Miami mall, but Mack Bolan knows that cleaning up the mess in Florida is just the beginning. One gang’s main operation leads back to Jamaica, where its drug trafficking business is flourishing. And so is the practice of voodoo and human sacrifice.
Infiltrating the gang on its own territory is a deadly challenge. With most of the island on the cartel’s payroll or too afraid to come forward, Bolan’s only ally is a Kingston police officer. But no matter the odds, the Executioner will do whatever it takes to bring down the drug lord and his army of killers.
How many left?
One man from the first car, at least three from the third, if he’d taken out its driver. Bolan still had work to do, and he was running out of time before some passing driver heard the sounds of battle and called the cops.
The one thing Bolan would not do, regardless of the circumstances, was initiate a firefight with police. He’d made a vow that he would never drop the hammer on a cop. Law enforcement officers, in Bolan’s mind, were “soldiers of the same side.” He’d evade them by any means, but would always stop short of lethal force.
Which meant he had to mop up his remaining enemies and get out of there before the police arrived.
Tick-tock.
He was about to go after the shooters from the third car when a flash of light alerted him to trouble. It was the Marauder’s dome light, coming on because one of its doors had opened. The woman bolting out of panic at the gunfire? Or had someone found her?
Either way, he had to check it out, but he couldn’t leave enemies behind while his back was turned.
Mouthing a curse, the Executioner moved out.
Blood Rites
Don Pendleton
Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin.
—Aesop,
“The Swallow and Other Birds”
Evil takes root wherever good men close their eyes. Only scorched earth can kill the seeds.
—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 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
Cover (#ufe13904a-2789-5592-8c1c-f5e17fdd931e)
Introduction (#u4c3bd8c6-5256-5de5-b639-7d6eba7ef38b)
Title Page (#u7897b172-bf46-502d-a1a1-0c5a03e6d49d)
Quotes (#u7b1dc91a-5cdd-59f1-ba54-ca9b1794e219)
MB Legend (#u2377bfc8-8659-5aea-8de9-765ca482c463)
Prologue (#u55cf909d-d924-5386-9cdb-d8d68eca31b4)
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2 (#u98f80e0d-0f62-53e5-870c-bd767ab7e2e8)
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Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_77e108c3-935e-5d95-a76a-224ac2d9cd18)
Dolphin Mall, Sweetwater, Florida
“He’s late,” René Bertin announced.
“I know he’s late,” François Raimonde replied. “You think I can’t tell time?”
“Just sayin’.”
“Well, stop sayin’, unless you got a way to hurry him.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Then shut up.”
Raimonde had always wondered why the county named its largest shopping mall after a fish, until somebody told him it was named after a football team. That pacified him for a while, until he learned the team had no connection to the mall, which irritated him again.
Screw it.
The only thing he cared about right now was meeting Roger Dessalines and picking up the bag he was supposed to deliver, with twelve kilos of pure cocaine inside. Dessalines was running late, some twenty minutes now, and that was cause for worry, but Raimonde was trying not to let it make him crazy. Bad things happened when he tipped over the edge, as anyone who knew him could attest.
At least, the ones who were still alive.
Bertin muttered something under his breath, and Raimonde felt his cheeks heating up. “What was that?”
“I said why don’t he call, if he’s gonna be late?”
“You can ask him, if he ever shows up.”
“Man, we’ve been sitting here forever. It ain’t good, you know?”
Raimonde knew. Deals like this one were meant to go swiftly and smoothly, no waiting around. Every minute they spent in the mall’s parking lot, baking under the sun in their Lexus, raised their level of risk. Mall security circled the property every half hour or so, and they might call police if they figured Raimonde and Bertin looked suspicious. Police meant questions and possibly a search that would reveal their weapons and the gym bag filled with cash.
Bad news, but that wasn’t the worst.
They were in posse territory. In Raimonde’s opinion this was a stupid place for a handoff, but he hadn’t been consulted. Never was, in fact. Just got his orders and obeyed them like a soldier should. But sitting still for any length of time in posse territory was an invitation to disaster.
“Where is he?” Bertin grumbled, not quite whining.
“I told you—”
“Shit! Look there! You see ’em?”
Raimonde followed Bertin’s pointing finger and went cold inside, despite the midday heat. A jet-black Lincoln MKT was cruising through the lot, its large grille flashing sunlight like a monster’s toothy smile. The blacked-out windows hid most of its passengers, but Raimonde saw the driver and his shotgun rider plain enough, both of them sporting dreads, the wheelman wearing a crocheted Rasta cap.
“What are we gonna do?” Bertin demanded.
“Do our job,” Raimonde informed him, reaching underneath his seat for the machine pistol hidden there. Bertin grunted and reached under his baggy jacket to draw a Glock 18 selective-fire model, digging in a pocket to produce a 33-round magazine and swap it for the pistol’s normal clip.
“They see us, we’re in shit,” Bertin declared.
“More likely if we move.”
“This is Roger’s fault.”
“The boss said wait,” Raimonde said. “We wait.”
And so, they did.
* * *
“CHECK OUT THE LEXUS,” Shabba Maxwell said.
“Where?” Tyson Eccles asked from the driver’s seat.
“Open your eyes.”
Neville Bucknor chimed in, from the backseat. “I know that bastard at the wheel.”
Eccles eyed the Lexus as they passed it, thirty yards away and rolling slowly in the Dolphin Mall’s fire lane. They were Haitians, he was almost sure, even without the word from Bucknor.
“What are we gonna do?” Desmond Salkey asked.
“Same thing we always do,” Maxwell said. “They’ve got no business on our turf.”
“You gonna ask the boss?” Eccles said.
“Ask him what?” Maxwell demanded. “He said deal with any bad boys we find comin’ up in here.”
“Should shoot ’em dead,” Salkey chipped in.
“You wanna ask someone,” Maxwell said, “give me the wheel and split.”
“Ease up, man,” Eccles said. “I’m with you, brother.”
“No more talking, then. Get out your pieces.”
Maxwell’s weapon was a Micro-Uzi SMG. His two men in the backseat carried AK-105 Kalashnikov carbines, and Eccles had a twelve-gauge Ithaca 37 Stakeout model shotgun tucked into the map pocket of his driver’s door, ready to go.
“Okay,” Maxwell told them. “Do this thing!”
