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Lethal Compound
Don Pendleton
U.S. intelligence agents become aware of a wealthy American's plans only when they intercept the chatter of Chinese spies.It is the billionaire's intention to lead a secret archaeological expedition into the mountainous border triangle between Afghanistan, China and Tajikistan. Mack Bolan is inserted within the group as they head into an area that is a hotbed of opium production.Traveling undercover with a group of foreign mercenaries hired to act as private security, Bolan knows that priceless treasure isn't the only thing hidden in the mountains of Tajikistan. And when they come under attack by Russian fighter jets, it becomes apparent to the Executioner that the unstable region is about to blow.
They were pinned
The dogs and trackers came behind them. Men on horseback soon followed. Bolan watched them from behind cover. He clicked his radio. “Piet, what have you got up front?”
“Armed men, platoon strength,” Piet said.
Bolan glanced at Gilad. “Anything?”
Gilad and the guide spoke in whispered Russian. Gilad shook his head. “He says he doesn’t know who these guys are. He says despite their clothes they are not Tajik.”
Bolan surveyed their trackers. “Piet, how are the guys ahead of us armed?”
“It’s all Russian kit.”
“My guys are all carrying Chinese weapons,” Bolan said and clicked his radio. “Eckhart, you there?”
“I copy, Coop.”
“I think the people in front and behind are two different groups.”
Eckhart wasn’t panicking yet but he was clearly agitated. “What are you saying, Coop?”
“I’ve got a theory these guys have two different agendas.” Bolan lowered his binoculars and looked at the ex-Ranger. “I say we introduce them and watch what happens.”
Lethal Compound
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
He who seizes on the moment, he is the right man.
—Johann Goethe
1749–1832
Faust
When the enemy attacks, my only option is to seize whatever opportunity comes my way.
—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
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
1
Atascadero, California
Gary Manning sighed as he sat in the sniper-hide and scanned the trees with his night-vision binoculars. “I hate babysitting jobs,” he grumbled.
Mack Bolan silently agreed. He scanned the surrounding central California oak forest. Body-guarding and babysitting were nearly synonymous in his book. You waited for the enemy to do something and then reacted to it. That was a recipe for disaster as the reaction often ended up happening after the damage was done. The man known as the Executioner was proactive. He believed in getting to the enemy before they could act.
“And babysitting billionaires?” Manning continued. “What’s up with that?”
“He likes hunting.” Bolan countered. “He can’t be all bad.”
Manning grunted noncommittally. The big Canadian was an avid hunter himself and had personally whiled away many a happy hour of his free time hunting the wild hogs that descended on the ranches, farms and wineries of California like a plague of porcine locusts every year. Their rooting created significant erosion damage to the hillsides every year. They voraciously ate any crop they came across.
As a result, pig-hunting season in California was a year-round proposition. Even with no restrictions on hunting them, the wild boar were winning.
Their population continued to increase. Their range continued to expand. Trophy-size hogs were everywhere.
So were men with rifles.
It was the perfect opportunity to stage a hunting “accident.” The enemy, whoever they were, could have a hundred snipers in the area armed with high-powered rifles with high-powered optics; all sneaking through the woods wearing camouflage and no one in local law enforcement would bat an eye.
Bolan knew Manning would love to be hunting the big game but they had a job to do. He swung his sights onto the cabin. It was made of logs but what it was in reality was a three-story log mansion with guest wings, servants’ quarters, a wine cellar and a fully equipped and domed astronomy observatory.
The net of the tennis court had been taken down and Philip Eckhart’s helicopter was parked on it.
Eckhart was a billionaire, and three very real attempts had recently been made on his life. Eckhart had decided to continue on with his anything but routine life, including his hunting trip. He had, however, stepped up security. Bolan knew that everything within a hundred-yard radius of the lodge was under video surveillance. The lodge grounds had a web of infrared laser motion detectors. Eight armed men wearing maroon Eckhart Endeavors windbreakers patrolled the grounds in two-man teams. Each team patrolled with a large guard dog. Another half-dozen security men were inside the house, checking security feeds and carrying pistols in concealment holsters.
Bolan frowned as Eckhart and a guest walked past a huge, open, brightly lit, second-story window. The man he watched was unremarkable to look at. He might be a billionaire but he was still wearing the same scuffed and stained khaki pants and flannel shirt from the dawn and dusk hunts of the day. Several of his companions had bagged pigs that were being roasted on huge spits in the backyard. Eckhart had held off on his own shots. It seemed he was waiting for a prize-winner.
A look of approval ghosted across Bolan’s face as Eckhart’s personal bodyguard shadowed the two men a few discreet steps behind. The man wasn’t very tall but his shoulders were broad, he stood ramrod-straight and projected like he was a six footer. He wore khaki shorts and a company polo shirt that had been tailored to fit his physique. Unlike the rest of the security detail he made no effort to hide the Browning 9 mm automatic or the thirteen-inch khukri dagger he wore on his belt.
Eckhart had hired himself a Gurkha from Gurkha Security Limited.
The man missed nothing. His brows bunched with obvious concern as his charge walked past the window. It was clear the bodyguard had stopped trying to advise Eckhart on how to live to see another day. Instead the man had made himself Eckhart’s shadow. The bodyguard gazed out the window in passing and Bolan could almost feel the former British soldier searching for him in the dark.
“Interesting,” Manning remarked.
Phillip Eckhart was an interesting guy. He had grown up unremarkably in the San Luis Obispo area. Hunting and fishing had taken up most of his time to the detriment of most other things in his life. Two years of junior college had barely squeaked him into the California Polytechnical Institute, but once there he had excelled, graduating magna cum laude in computer science with a minor in archaeology, a subject that had remained a passion in his life. Eckhart had never invented anything. What he had excelled at was looking at something and figuring out a way to make it better. He’d started working in Silicon Valley for established companies. Eventually he started his own company, went public, sold it and was a millionaire at the age of thirty-five. He had taken the profits and started another company, and then another and another. Then he started buying other, well-established businesses and made them work better. Before long he was a billionaire. His umbrella company was Eckhart Endeavors. Through that he looked around, found things that interested him and engaged in fascinating endeavors that made stupendous profits. Wall Street constantly held its breath waiting to see what he would do next.
Now someone wanted him dead.
Bolan didn’t find that surprising. One generally didn’t become a billionaire without making enemies. Often, vast numbers of them. The one strange caveat to the situation was that Phillip Eckhart was the only known billionaire on the planet who also happened to be a genuinely nice guy.
The President of the United States was concerned by the threats to Eckhart’s life. Eckhart was a friend and an important campaign contributor. Nonetheless Eckhart had refused the security services of the FBI, the CIA and the Secret Service, saying he could take care of himself. But the President was troubled. So was the CIA. Was Eckhart just being his eccentric self or was he involved in something he wanted to hide? The president had consulted Hal Brognola, Director of the Justice Department’s Special Operations Group, who’d called in Bolan for a covert operation.
Phillip Eckhart’s brain was a national treasure, and the country could not afford to lose him. Furthermore, if one of the wealthiest men on earth was really up to something ugly, the United States government needed to know about it. The men from Stony Man Farm had fanned out. Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman and his team had begun their computer wizardry, looking into Eckhart’s comings and goings while Bolan and Manning sat in a sweaty sniper-hide eating protein bars while the smell of roasted boar wafted up the hillside to torment them.
Eckhart’s hired security wasn’t bad, but if Bolan and Manning could sneak up within rifle range so could someone else, and the Executioner knew he could take Eckhart anytime he wanted to.
Manning spoke very quietly. A tiny LED was flashing on their security suite. “Motion, near Suspect One.”
Bolan and Manning had spent the seventy-two hours before Eckhart arrived at the cabin mapping the valley and finding the best spots for an enemy to set up to kill Eckhart. They’d established a descending order of best possible points from which to launch an attack on the lodge. Bolan and Manning had rigged the sites with security. Suspect One was the prime spot in this neck of the woods for hunting billionaires. It gave a commanding view of the house and the grounds and was within five hundred yards, putting it well within range of a good rifle or a handheld rocket launcher. There was good cover and concealment and it offered several escape routes, one of which led to a glade that was wide enough to support a helicopter landing.
“Confirm motion,” Bolan said.
The pigs had been setting off the motion sensors regularly.
“Motion confirmed on two sources.” Manning looked up with a grim smile. “Sensors are picking up significant metal readings.”
Unless they had eaten a hunter and his gear the one thing the wild boars of California didn’t do was carry rifles, and something had tripped the motion sensors at Suspect One and was carrying a significant source of metal. Bolan took out his phone and pressed a preset number.
The Executioner watched as Eckhart stopped by a window and pulled out his phone. The billionaire stared at his phone for long moments while it rang. When he was off hunting, fishing, sailing or mountain climbing his personal secretary took all his calls. This was his personal phone. Only the people closest to him had access to this number. But, with the help of Kurtzman, Mack Bolan did, too. He watched Eckhart continue to stare at his phone. The screen was giving Eckhart no caller ID. The Executioner figured it was 50/50 whether he responded.
Eckhart suddenly flipped open the phone and answered brightly. “Eckhart!”
Bolan spoke quietly. “Mr. Eckhart, listen carefully. I’d like you to step away from the window.”
Eckhart’s face blanked for the barest instant and then he disappeared behind the three-foot beams of his log cabin mansion. “Who is this? What do you want?”
“I’m extra security for you. An attempt is about to made on your life. I would like you to very quietly pull your security teams, your staff and your guests into the house. I believe the enemy will have snipers and possible support weapons. Out in the open your men will be cut to pieces,” the Executioner said.
“I have a sharpshooter in the observatory up top. How about he counter-snipes?”
Clearly Eckhart was thinking ahead but not far enough. “Pull him. The dome is a death trap. Your shooter will get one shot and then he’ll be killed. You should have deployed him in the hills,” Bolan said.
“I never thought of that, I—”
There was no time to debate tactics. “I gather you have a basement shelter that is fire and earthquake proof?”
“Yeah…”
“Get everyone in it,” Bolan said.
“I’m not big on holing up. I’d rather keep my options flexible if I’m under attack,” Eckhart said.
“I can’t tell you what to do, Mr. Eckhart, but I would suggest you at least pull into the interior of the house, and if you see shots on the hillside try to hold your fire. I’m going to try to take the gunmen out, now, and you might hit me or a buddy of mine.”
“What if they get past you?”
“The only way they’ll get past us is if we’re dead. At that point you’re free to do whatever you like.”
Eckhart was silent for a moment. “Sounds fair to me. Good luck!” he said.
“Thanks, and you.” Bolan put his communication headset in place. “Stay on the line.”
“You got it. Keep me advised,” Eckhart replied.
