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Hazard Zone
Don Pendleton
A luxury Jamaican tourist resort turns into a death trap when a vacationing American senator's daughter is murdered. When her body is then used to unleash chemical warfare on the U.S., it's clear this wasn't just a random crime. It was a message–and Mack Bolan intends to respond.Tracking the bioterrorist behind the gruesome attack back to the Jamaican ghettos quickly turns into a deadly chase. Bolan soon finds himself the target of the island's most lethal gang. But they aren't the only ones prepared to kill to protect their secrets. There is another high-powered operator in the game, and the Executioner is determined to take him out–even if it means bringing the battle back to Washington.
A moving shadow was all the warning the Executioner had
Bolan did a full running roll to get out of the way as a machete glinted in the moonlight.
“Got to kill you,” the heavily accented voice said. “For the Obeah Man.”
Bolan kept moving and came up with the Desert Eagle in his hand. He needed someone left alive who could talk, so he fired low, blowing out the man’s kneecap.
The posse member screamed and went down, and Bolan immediately turned back to the driveway, hoping to catch up to his target. But the car kicked up gravel as it peeled away, and he got only a glimpse inside—enough to see that the Obeah Man was getting away.
Bolan walked back to the man screaming on the ground and kicked the machete out of reach. “We need to have a talk.”
“Screw you!” the man muttered.
“It’s a start,” the Executioner said. “But I’m looking for something a little more informative.”
Hazard Zone
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Everyone has his superstitions. One of mine has always been when I started to go anywhere, or to do anything, never turn back or to stop until the thing intended was accomplished.
—Ulysses S. Grant
1822–1885
Each mission has its challenges, and the path to resolution is never predictable. But regardless of the hurdles, I promise to always follow through until every last enemy is taken care of…one way or another.
—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
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Prologue
“Shiver shot!” everyone screamed at once, laughing and giggling.
Bastiene “Spook” Durene smiled at the group of college students seated around the table, while the young woman to his right blushed. For their evening entertainment, they’d chosen a popular drinking game called Suicide Kings, and with some subtle manipulation of the cards, he’d drawn the King of Spades.
They were far too drunk to realize he’d been stacking the deck all night, moving the game to the outcome he desired, while ensuring his own sobriety. There was too much to accomplish this night to allow himself to become inebriated. Bastiene pointed a long finger at the woman, then picked up a thin wedge of lime from the bowl on the table. “You,” he said, pitching his voice low enough so that only she could hear him.
“Me,” she said, blushing again as he placed the lime between her lips. She grasped it between her teeth.
He leaned closer, then slowly ran his tongue along her neck. She shivered and he smiled once more, hiding his grin beneath a long curl of her hair. Everything was going according to plan. He reached for the saltshaker and tossed a few shakes at the damp line he’d put on her neck, then he licked it clean, drank off the shot of tequila and moved to her lips. He took the lime from her mouth into his, turning it into a deep kiss.
“Mmm,” he whispered against her neck as the kiss ended. “I be bettin’ you glamity tastes even finer.” Bastiene purposely used the Jamaican accent and slang she and her friends expected, though he could, and often did, speak perfect English.
“Glamity?” she asked, giggling.
“I be showin’ you soon,” he said. “And you be showin’ me.”
The young woman laughed and leaned away. Her name was Amber Carson. Tall and seductive, she had a body that would make any frat boy her willing slave. She pushed a strand of her blond hair over her shoulder as she moved the shot glasses out of the way. So far, she’d already had six shots of from the large bottle of tequila. This night, all his work would pay off. This was Amber’s fourth trip to Jamaica, and each time, he’d made a point of meeting her, getting to know her a little bit better. He tried not to laugh as she even now had to puzzle over the true meaning of his words.
He watched as she grasped what he meant—that she would taste good in her most private of places—then openly grinned as her blush deepened even more. “Maybe,” she said, laughing and pushing him away. “And maybe not! First I’ve got to get something to eat!”
“Then let’s get you something to eat,” he said, gesturing at the nearby buffet table that was loaded with food.
Her chair scraped the floor as she rose unsteadily to her feet. “Deal me out,” she said. “It’s food or puke, and I’m voting with my feet.”
Everyone laughed again and waved her off as she headed to the buffet. Bastiene followed closely behind her. In the times she’d been here, he’d learned a great deal about her. Her father was a U.S. senator, but before that, he’d built a pretty sizable fortune in various types of mining. She was obviously spoiled—how many young women got to spend their downtime at a private resort in Jamaica—but he also knew she was just a year away from finishing her undergraduate degree in international law in the top ten of her class. He’d even overheard her talking with her friends about graduate school and someday working in a U.S. Embassy somewhere overseas.
With her connections, such a dream would be attainable. If Bastiene had any truly compassionate feelings at all, he might feel a little sad that her dream would never come true. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t feel much compassion for anyone, let alone a spoiled little rich girl who was merely one cog in a much bigger plan. The world was filled with young women like her, and one more or less would make no difference.
The Goldshore Villas Resort was a custom-built haven for the rich and the privileged. The private condominium community was especially popular this time of year, when wealthy kids from the U.S. came to Montego Bay for spring break. With private hot tubs and lots of hidden paths for secret trysts, it was the perfect place to escape the notice of overprotective parents and the prying eyes of paparazzi that hounded them in the States. For this trip, Amber had brought a half-dozen friends with her, and they lived it up in a style that would make most of the other students in Jamaica for the weeklong party green with envy. There was plenty of booze, mountains of food and enough ganja to keep everyone happily stoned. When they weren’t playing in the surf or lying on the beach, they were dancing and partying and having sex.
Bastiene was one of a handful of locals who knew her well—and he’d made it a point of being one of the few who always showed up to party on his off-hours. His time working here was almost done, however, and he was grateful for that. She was the one, the Obeah man had assured him, that would allow their plans to move into the next and final phase. They would finally be ready.
Amber stopped at the buffet, picked up a plate and began to load it with fruit and cheese. She glanced over her shoulder at him as she continued along the line feigning interest that was even less subtle with her overindulgence of tequila. He knew she was checking to see if he’d followed. From what he’d overheard on her first day there, she’d just broken up with a fairly serious boyfriend, and was committed to having a commitment-free but very fun weekend. He’d turned on the charm after that, using his dark good looks and deep voice to every advantage. He had some fun in mind, too. The mission was important, but there was no reason not to indulge in the little slice of American pie, especially after all of his hard work.
Adjusting his dreadlocks, he moved behind her and put his large hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. She leaned back into him, rubbing seductively. He kissed her neck just behind her ear.
She giggled once more, and he leaned close to whisper, “What’s so funny, girl?”
“Nothing I’m willing to share yet,” she said archly, turning her attention back to the buffet. She loaded up a plate with jerk chicken, seasoned rice and coco bread. “Come sit with me?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said, gesturing to a small, private table beneath an umbrella, then leading the way to pull out her chair. “Something to drink?” he asked as she sat down.
“Just a cola,” she said. “If I’m going to last the night, I need to slow down a little.”
He nodded and crossed the patio to the wet bar, slipping behind it to get her cola. With his hands hidden by the front of the bar, he slipped the small vial of white powder from his pocket. He tapped the vial with the roofie to keep it from sticking in the humid Jamaican climate and poured it into the glass. After adding a few cubes of ice and filling it with cola, he used a swizzle stick from the bar to mix it carefully, ensuring that the powder had dissolved completely. Then he returned to the table where she had made a sandwich from the jerk chicken on the coco bread.
“Ask and receive,” he said, offering her the glass.
She took it from his hand, then gulped down several large swallows. “Thanks,” she said. “I was getting a little dehydrated.”
“I understand,” he said. “Eat and you’ll feel better.”
She resumed her meal and he watched her carefully, noting how often she drank from the glass, and seeing the drug slowly take effect. “I must have had…” she started to say, her words slurring as she verbally stumbled. She tried again, laughing. “More tequila than I thought.”
“Don’ you worry on it,” he said. “Jus’ relax and everything gonna be fine.”
Amber turned and stared into his eyes. “You’re…beautiful,” she said. “You have a voice like…like…melted chocolate.”
“Thank you,” he said. “You are beautiful, too.”
She finished off the cola and the food, and tried to get to her feet. It was only by moving quickly that he was able to catch her and keep her from falling flat on her rear end. “Oops!” she said.
“Perhaps you should be lying down,” he suggested, holding her tightly in his arms.
“Is that an offer?” She laughed.
“It is,” he said.
“Then take me to my room!” she demanded, pointing back at the resort and swaying on her feet. In another few minutes, the drug would rapidly overcome her system. He needed to move quickly.
“Ask and receive,” he said again, scooping her off her feet completely.
“Whee!” she cried.
Her friends turned to see the commotion and laughed. “Hey, Amber,” one of her girlfriends shouted. “Are you off to explore the dark continent?” Laughter echoed over the patio again.
“Every…single…inch!” she crowed. “Got to sample the local cuisine!”
He smiled broadly and began carrying her toward the resort building where her condo was located. In less time than it took him to get there, she was passed out completely. Before he got to the building itself, he turned and made his way around the side. No one was in sight, and he moved to the front and to the waiting Jeep.
Another man got out and opened the back. He put Amber’s unconscious form inside. “Take her to the Obeah man,” he said. “She is not to be harmed. I will be there as soon as I can.”
“You got it,” the other man said. He jumped back in, started the engine, then drove away.
Bastiene returned to the main building and made his way to Amber’s room. Once there, he checked to ensure that her bed looked slept in—it did—and that nothing else was out of place. He took a glass from the bar and poured a generous serving of rum. He wandered around the room as he sipped his drink. A mirror next to the dresser showed the red lipstick smudge on his collar. He moved to the wet bar and sat quietly for several minutes finishing off the rum. When he was done, he put it back on the bar and headed out of the room.
He took his time, walking calmly, and arrived back at the patio. Amber’s girlfriend—a redhead whose name he didn’t know—laughed uproariously when he explained sheepishly that she’d passed out before the explorations could begin. “Perhaps I’ll do better tomorrow,” he said.
“Not if she’s sober!” the young woman replied.
Everyone laughed, including Bastiene, and he made a point of staying for several more hours, then excusing himself for the night. On his way out, he stopped by the front desk and chatted with the clerk for several minutes, then he went out the front door, got into his own Jeep and left.
On his way to the hidden home of the Obeah man, he scrubbed away the makeup on his face and arms that hid the tattoos and scars marking him as a member of the Undead Posse…and an apprentice to the Obeah arts.
“THIS PART IS CRITICAL, man,” Bastiene said. “The trigger must not move until the autopsy.”
