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Hostile Odds
Don Pendleton
The illicit activities of an organized crime family draw Mack Bolan to California, where he uncovers a deadly power struggle. It seems a branch of this family tree extends to a small town in Oregon where the Mob's influence runs deep. Following the bloody trail, Bolan takes his war across the state line.Profits from prostitution, drugs and numbers rackets tied to several local businesses are being funneled to a radical ecoterrorist group more than willing to strike out against anything–and anyone–standing in its way. A war is brewing and the small town is under siege. Faced with mounting casualties, the Executioner will have to use his own methods to clean up the environment.
The Executioner burst into the back room and immediately crouched
The instinctual move saved Bolan’s life as the escapee burst from behind a desk and triggered two rounds that whizzed overhead close enough for him to hear their passage. He recognized the shooter instantly.
Bolan leveled his weapon and squeezed the trigger. The 9 mm slugs struck center mass, entering the body with an upward trajectory, and punched through lung and heart tissue before exiting out the upper back. The impact sent the man reeling into a filing cabinet with enough force to dent the thin, light gray metal drawers.
The sounds of battle died and Bolan rose slowly amid the smoke of gunfire and the smell of death. The air of violence and spent energies clung to the Executioner like a cloak. The battle had taken less than a minute but the threat had been quelled.
All that remained was to topple the head of the underworld. And it was a task Mack Bolan relished.
Hostile Odds
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Jon Guenther for his contribution to this work.
War grows out of the desire of the individual to gain advantage at the expense of his fellow man.
—Napoleon Hill
1883–1970
My war grew out of opposing those who oppress the weak and exploit the innocent. In that respect, it is a war the enemy has declared on itself.
—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
Prologue
Klamath Falls, Oregon
The two F-15E Eagle fighter jets streaked into the air with the thunderclap of sonic speed, their aluminum skins glinting silvery-blue with the twilight of dusk. Suddenly they lost altitude and crashed several hundred yards outside the perimeter fence of Kingsley Airfield.
The tower crew could only discern what looked like engine flameouts, and then the explosions of impact a heartbeat later, each red-orange fireball fed by twenty thousand liters of jet fuel. As one controller began to scream out the call signs of the two trainer fighters, the tower chief contacted the command duty officer at the USAF headquarters building. The CDO ordered an immediate lockdown of the base and surrounding area even as the tower dispatched emergency services to the crash site.
The tower crew would later testify they hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary, even swore the flashes of light just prior to the accident could only have been reflections of the engine flameouts. What they didn’t know—couldn’t possibly have known at that time and what the government wouldn’t tell them—were that those flashes marked the points where surface-to-air rockets had struck the pair of trainer fighters.
Rockets fired from portable launchers in proximity to the airfield.
“Which meant is wasn’t an accident at all,” the chief investigator told the CDO and Colonel Harlan Winnetka, the wing commander, a week later.
“Any ideas who the hell might be responsible for these attacks?” Winnetka asked.
“I can’t be certain of anything right now, sir,” the investigator replied. “To be perfectly honest, there isn’t enough evidence to draw a definitive conclusion. The only thing we know for sure is that these craft were brought down by shoulder-fired weapons. The perpetrators were diligent to cover their tracks in the confusion, because we were too busy working this initially as an accident, maybe a midair collision. After all, these were trainers with students at the stick. We thought one of the students lost control and ran into the other, bringing down both birds in the process.”
“Except that those fighters were also attended by highly experienced pilots,” Winnetka said. “And with the evidence of antiaircraft weapons, we know different. Could this be the work of terrorists?”
Major Leonard Swope, the CDO on duty at the time of the incident, expressed incredulity. “You think these were…terrorists? If that gets out to the press, sir—”
“Well, then we just make damned sure it doesn’t get out, Major!” Winnetka’s face reddened. He jabbed a finger at the investigator and his eyes flashed. “And I don’t even have the details of this incident off to Washington yet, so you have to promise you’ll keep quiet about this until I can make a full report to the Chief of Staff. Is that understood, Captain?”
The investigator nodded. “Yes, sir, of course. But I must submit my written report within forty-eight hours.”
“I’m aware of the regulations, mister,” Winnetka said. “I have no desire to make this sound like a cover-up. I just don’t want a media circus. If either of you are approached by anyone about this, you simply advise them it’s still under investigation. In fact, better to just refer them to me.”
After he swore both officers to secrecy and warned of the consequences should they disobey his direct orders, Winnetka dismissed them. He spun in his leather office chair and looked absently out the window.
Winnetka had put out feelers and gotten just the response he expected—the shock of suggesting a terrorist group might be responsible for another attack on American soil had practically sent his two subordinates into a fit. What they didn’t know, either because they were too blind or too afraid to admit it, was that domestic terrorist activities across the Northwest had increased in recent months. Winnetka didn’t know exactly who or what, but he couldn’t ignore the signs. The Pentagon would call him paranoid, maybe even suggest he take some leave to reconsider his assertions without hard evidence, but at least he could prove this had been a wanton attack against the United States Air Force and not just a training accident. Either way, he needed help on this—a specialized kind of help.
And he had no idea where to find it.
1
Mack Bolan stared at a face of death through the crosshairs of a Bushnell 6 x 42 electronic scope.
He tightened the ergonomic stock of the SIG-Sauer SSG-300 against his shoulder and took a deep breath. The Swiss had designed the rifle to provide high accuracy stats, increasing the one-shot kill probability by a factor of ten, and the 7.62 mm NATO rounds averaged a muzzle velocity of eight hundred meters per second. The rifle would do the job nicely in Bolan’s hands.
Organized crime had brought the Executioner to the sleepy town of Tulelake in northern California. In fact, the Gowan crime Family had taken over all the vice action throughout Siskiyou County, from prostitution and drugs to a comprehensive numbers racket. The Executioner had spent the past month in meticulous soft probes of the communities throughout the county, and one thing remained consistent: Mickey Gowan’s fingers were into a very large pie. Mack Bolan had a plan to chop them to nubs.
He would start with Gowan’s right-hand man, Billy Moran.
Bolan would have preferred to do this at some other place and time, but he’d seen an opportunity to bring down one of the big players in the Gowan crime Family without endangering bystanders. Moran and Gowan were almost never seen together other than behind the ten-foot-high walls of Gowan’s estate, additionally fortified by several dozen well-armed house soldiers. Bolan hadn’t let that dissuade him, however, since Moran was like most human beings—a creature of habit and therefore predictable. The Executioner decided to exploit that vulnerability to send a message loud and clear.
He let out half his deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The big rifle boomed a thunderous report, but Bolan kept it rock steady against his shoulder until he verified the kill. Shock flashed across Moran’s face at the same moment his head snapped sideways at an odd angle. Blood and fragments of skull erupted from the wound, spraying the lieutenant who sat next to him, and then he disappeared behind the table at which he’d been sitting as the impact knocked him completely out of his seat.
Bolan played the bolt smoothly and chambered a fresh round before the three bodyguards at Moran’s private table on the back patio of the Irish café could react. Moran’s lieutenant went next. The Executioner caught him with a clean shot to the center of the chest. The shot knocked him off his feet, and he crashed through the lead glass top of a neighboring table.
Bringing another round home, Bolan sighted carefully on the third man, now concealed behind the thick ivy intertwined through the wrought-iron fencing that bordered the porch. Apparently, the goon figured the shooter couldn’t see him if he couldn’t see the shooter. He was wrong. Bolan took the guy with a shot center mass. The only sign of the hit was a geyser of blood that erupted over the top of the decorative fencing.
Bolan policed his brass, then broke from his position at a wood line about one hundred and fifty yards from the restaurant. He’d specifically selected the spot not only for its distance but also because it would take someone time to reach the area remotely, and even longer for them to actually figure out from exactly where Bolan had fired the shots. By that time, the Executioner would be long gone.
Bolan reached his rental car parked two hundred yards from the woods on a dirt access road. He buried the rifle in a predug pit just off the shoulder and covered it with natural leaves. He marked a tree near the brush with reactive chalk that would glow when sprayed with a reagent and then hightailed it out of there. If he did get pulled over by the local authorities, he certainly wouldn’t want them to find him with any weapons.
As he left the dirt road and entered the city limits of Tulelake, he considered his next move. Word had it that Gowan used the numbers rackets to help launder money for parties unknown, a lot of which took place in underground gambling joints scattered throughout Siskiyou County. Bolan couldn’t help but wonder how those parties might feel if a whole bunch of the cash running through those joints suddenly came up missing. The warrior figured he’d find out soon enough.
The Executioner just happened to have an address.
THE BROWN-AND-GRAY HAZE of cigar and cigarette smoke clung in low clouds throughout the dimly lit room. A jazz-funk mix blared from unseen speakers in the background, competing with the steady din of voices, laughter and shouts of excitement. People were scattered around gaming tables of different venues, and with the décor, wall-length bar, cigarette and drink gals in miniskirts to complete the ensemble, Bolan got the impression he’d entered a 1930s speakeasy.
After returning to his lodgings for a shower and change of clothes, Bolan drove to the popular joint just outside Tulelake on Highway 139. The Executioner paid his cover of five hundred in cash to a pair of gorillas watching the basement entrance and allowed them to pat him down. He felt naked without his constant companion, the Beretta 93-R, but drawing attention before the right time was the last thing he wanted to do. Better to play the game and wait it out, see what happened. Bolan mingled, played a couple hands of blackjack, cashed out when he reached two hundred dollars, and then lost the entire winnings along with an additional half bill at the only roulette table in the place. He played the other tables for the next two hours, keeping one eye on the game and the other on the room’s occupants, focusing on individual conversations.
The sounds of a mild disturbance at the front entrance caught his attention, and he let his eyes rove in that direction while maintaining a discreet posture. He saw the two thugs hassle a shorter man with a dark suit and a haircut that spelled Fed. The newcomer had the smell of cop all over him, and while the hoods at the door might have suspected it, Bolan knew it for a fact because he’d met him early the previous morning.
Bolan lost his final hand of the evening, dropped his remaining three chips on the dealer as a tip and moved toward the door at a casual pace. As he went to slide past the cop still trying to get in the door, the warrior slammed hard into the smaller man and nearly knocked him off his feet. The guy turned toward Bolan in irritation and opened his mouth, but the view shocked him into silence.
The Executioner took his mind off it before the idiot got them both killed. “Sorry, Tiny, didn’t see you there.” He flashed the door guards a semiwicked grin and then walked out.
The man continued arguing with the bouncers for another minute, probably just to make it look good, then joined Bolan outside the restaurant that sat directly above the underground club.
“Why do I feel the compunction to punch your lights out?” Special Agent Jeff Kellogg demanded.
“Lack of common sense,” Bolan said as he turned and headed for his car.
“Wait a minute, Cooper!” Kellogg called, using Bolan’s cover name for the mission. The Fed trotted to get ahead of Bolan’s long strides. He stopped in the Executioner’s path and held up a hand, careful not to touch the imposing form. “I don’t know where you’re from or who you work for, but I thought I made it clear yesterday to butt out.”
“I don’t take orders from you, Kellogg,” Bolan said flatly. “And don’t blame me because you couldn’t get in. You got any idea where you were just now?”
Kellogg tried to look confident but seemed to falter under Bolan’s scrutiny.
“I didn’t think so,” Bolan continued. “In case it escaped notice, you were facing off with Mickey Gowan’s boys.”
“What? That’s impossible!”
“And it’s exactly that kind of thinking that’ll get you killed one of these days,” Bolan said. “Count me out.”
“What proof you got Gowan’s running that operation?”
“Plenty. I tried to bring it to you nearly three weeks ago, and you didn’t seem interested.”
“I’m interested now. But I’m not a law unto myself, pal, and I damned sure can’t just go busting down doors without hard evidence. The only things you brought me were theories and conjecture. The FBI doesn’t operate speculatively.”
“Maybe you should start,” Bolan said as he walked around Kellogg and continued toward his car.
“You’re not bulletproof, Cooper!” Kellogg called after Bolan. “Don’t go doing something stupid, or I’ll bust you in no time flat.”
The soldier got into his car and split. Kellogg was too obtuse to realize Bolan had probably just saved his hide. Bolan considered his options as he drove back to his room at the Tulelake lodge. He’d just left one of many of Mickey Gowan’s operations. But while some of the people at that underground casino were helping to line Gowan’s pockets, Bolan couldn’t categorize them in the same class as the crime boss. Many were there simply to have some fun, and certainly hadn’t done anything worthy of the Executioner’s wrath. Besides, Bolan had what he needed. Something big was happening just over the border in Timber Vale, one of the lumber towns north of Klamath Falls. Less than a two-hour drive from Tulelake, it was filled with lumberjacks, mill workers and carpenters. The mill there also had a union, which was run by one of Gowan’s underlings.
As Bolan drew closer to the lakeside lodge where he’d been staying, he noticed two pairs of headlights swing into the review mirror. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He’d driven this road enough to know it was practically devoid of traffic this time of night. Despite the fact this was tourist season in Siskiyou County, he could chalk up a single vehicle to coincidence but not two.
