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Resurgence
Don Pendleton
A raid on a sex slave depot on the U.S. eastern seaboard is the launching pad of an international firestorm for Mack Bolan.His target–the Albanian mafia–is rapidly expanding its American network with help from the resurrected Kosovar terrorist group, the KLA. After mopping up the mob's stateside end of the pipeline, Bolan and a beautiful Russian agent track the long reach of drugs, human trafficking and black-market arms sales across the Atlantic to the port city of Marseille, France. Bolan blazes a trail of incendiary retribution through corrupt officials, Corsican drug lords and terrorist infrastructure. At the top of his death game, he plays to his enemy's weaknesses, inciting betrayal and panic. But the main event lies across the Adriatic, where the godfather of the Albanian mob is about to get a visit from the Executioner–and a one-way ticket to his own personal hell.
Human trafficking was a profitable business
Bolan watched as the slides showed girls and women being led from seedy rooms by uniformed police. Stretchers were used to carry out the ones who couldn’t walk, either because they had been drugged or their abused bodies had rebelled.
“Kurti answers to this man, back home,” Brognola said as the next slide revealed an older man.
“Rahim Berisha,” the big Fed said. “Think of him as Albania’s Teflon Don. He’s got the best friends money can buy on both sides of the law. He’s been indicted seven times, but something always goes off track at the Ministry of Justice—paperwork misfiled, warrants thrown out on technicalities, witnesses disappear. You get the picture.”
Bolan wished he could study that face through a sniper scope. “So the job would be…”
“Shut them down,” Brognola stated grimly. “Wipe them off the face of the earth.”
Mack Bolan
Resurgence
Don Pendleton’s
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
There is no such thing in man’s nature as a settled and full resolve, either for good or evil, except in the moment of execution.
—Nathaniel Hawthorne 1804–1864
I guess that all depends on who you execute, and why.
—Mack Bolan
For Master-At-Arms Second Class Michael A. Monsoor
September 29, 2006 God keep
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Off Cape May Point, New Jersey
“Could be a fishing trawler, sir,” Ensign Jared Decker said.
“Could be trouble,” Lieutenant Commander Julio Martinez replied as he tracked the target with his AN/PVS-14 monocular night-vision goggle.
Martinez and Decker occupied the bridge of the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Thresher, one of the eighty-seven-foot Marine Protector class vessels that were always named for aquatic predators.
The Thresher and its ten-member crew were on routine patrol from the Coast Guard’s Cape May Training Center, merging education with some practical experience. Their main targets were drug smugglers, but in the new world forged by 9/11’s flames they also had to watch for terrorists seeking a beachhead on American soil.
Three hours out from home, this might-be fishing trawler was their first suspicious contact.
“I can’t make out the name from here,” Martinez said.
“I couldn’t, either,” Decker answered.
“Better hail them, then, and see what’s up.”
“Yes, sir.”
He passed the order to the Thresher’s radio officer, seated no more than fifteen feet from their lieutenant commander. Decker had no doubt that Ensign Rachel Wells had copied the instruction, but Martinez demanded adherence to chain of command.
Wells gave him an “Aye, aye” and did her thing, trying to raise the trawler’s captain on a range of frequencies. No answer from the nameless target vessel, but they did get a response.
“It’s turning,” Martinez said, “and increasing speed.”
“Yes, sir!” Decker had trouble reining in his natural excitement.
“All hands to their duty stations,” the lieutenant commander ordered. “Run them down.”
“THEY’RE AFTER US,” Gjergj Cana observed.
“Of course. Are you surprised?” Masiela Dovolani asked.
“No. I just—”
“See to the cattle,” Dovolani ordered. “Keep them calm for now.”
Cana made no reply. There was no military discipline aboard the stolen boat, once known as the Adeline before its owner had been killed and dumped at sea, its name and registration numbers falsified and weathered artificial for maximum obscurity. But Cana didn’t hesitate when Dovolani told him what to do.
An act of insubordination could be fatal on this run-down pirate’s boat.
The “cattle” Dovolani spoke of was a group of twenty-seven frightened, hopeful men, women and children crammed belowdecks in a space that would have crowded half as many. Cana guessed they had fouled the head by now, as peasants will, but that was not his worry at the moment.
He was more concerned about survival.
Staying out of jail.
He scuttled to the hatch, a hunched shadow figure until he was pinned by the glare of a spotlight. Raising an arm to shield his eyes, Cana proceeded, wincing as a man’s amplified voice reached out for him across the water.
“Unknown vessel, stop your engines! This is the United States Coast Guard! Heave to and stand by for boarding!”
Not likely, he thought, and ran to the hatch. It opened easily enough, faint light below revealing troubled faces. Some of the women and children were crying.
“What’s wrong?” one of the grim-faced men called up to him.
Good question, Cana thought.
“The police are after us,” he told them, keeping it simple and watching their faces convulse. They didn’t have to know it was the armed forces chasing them.
“Keep quiet,” he added.
He had no real hope that any of them would be quiet, but Cana slammed the hatch shut before he faced any more questions.
Cattle shouldn’t speak in the first place.
The Coast Guard cutter hailed him once again on his run back to the wheelhouse. Cana braced himself for bullets, but they didn’t come.
“Well?” Dovolani challenged as Cana entered. “Did you quiet them?”
“They’re calm,” Cana said, “for now. Where can they go?”
“To hell, for all I care,” his boss replied. “This tub can’t hope to outrun that cutter.”
“So? What then?”
“We need a fire,” Dovolani said.
“What!”
“Just do it!” Dovolani snapped.
Cana opened a nearby drawer and grabbed a fat thermite grenade.
God help the cattle now.
“THEY’RE BURNING, sir!” The break in Decker’s voice embarrassed him.
“Burning and still running,” Lieutenant Commander Martinez said. “Stand by with the firefighting gear, but stay alert on those Fifties.”
“Aye, sir!”
Decker passed on the order via intercom, with no doubt in his mind that both gunners were ready for action behind their .50-caliber machine guns. Nervously, he dropped a hand to his right hip, where a SIG-Sauer P-229 R DAK semiauto pistol nestled in its tactical holster. Other members of the crew would be armed with M-16 A-2 assault rifles and Remington M 870 P 12-gauge shotguns, ready for boarding.
Assuming that the trawler didn’t burn up and sink before they could reach her.
“Is that someone going overboard?” Martinez asked.
“Can’t see them, sir,” Decker replied. “It might—”
There was no doubt then, in the next split second, as a human torch ran stumbling across the trawler’s rear deck, tripped and plunged over its side into the sea.
“Jesus!”
“Come on!” Martinez snapped. “Get up alongside!”
The helmsman was already taking action as Decker relayed the order, no standing on protocol now. The Thresher surged forward, gaining on the boat as it seemed to stall, wallowing in the Atlantic swells.
Gaining, for sure.
But Decker feared that they were already too late.
