VIRULENT TERROR Attacked by a horde of feral, rampaging villagers infected by a synthetic virus, Mack Bolan barely escapes the isolated mountain town in time to witness a mysterious black ops team as they raze the place and kill all its inhabitants. Determined to find the source of this powerful bioweapon, Bolan tracks the virus to a secret facility, where scientists are working to make the infected victims stronger, swifter and more deadly. But the wealthy industrialist who turns out to be funding this research has his sights set on all-out toxic warfare. Now that it’s ready, the germ will be unleashed on a mass scale across the European Union, targeting specific ethnic groups for destruction. With millions of lives at stake, Bolan has no choice but to embark on a seek-and-destroy mission. Tentatively he sniffed the air. It was redolent of decaying plants, fresh bark, a hint of blood—and sweat, coming from the corner to his right. Bolan took his hand away from his face to find it clenched into a fist, just like the one at his side. What the hell is happening to me? he thought. Every sense was preternaturally aware. Every inch of his body overflowed with energy, as if he could run a dozen marathons back-to-back. But above all, his mind was filled with the overwhelming basic instinct of fight-or-flight. But it was difficult to consider flight as a viable option anymore. Instead, there was only the burning need for combat, to dominate his opponent—any opponent—and leave the person bleeding and defeated in the dirt. Almost unaware that his lips had peeled back from his teeth in a feral grin, Bolan stepped farther into the room, his eyes wide and searching. Hunting for his prey. Nightmare Army Don Pendleton It is a man’s own mind, not his enemy or foe, that lures him to evil ways. —Buddha The evil ways of evil men will eventually bring them down. And if it takes too long, I’ll step forward to hurry things up. —Mack Bolan Contents Labored breath loud in his ears, bare feet shuffling down the dark path, Motumbo staggered through the dark jungle. His side, red and sticky with blood, pulsed with pain at each step, but he didn’t stop. Instead he kept scanning around, nose flared to scent possible prey, red-rimmed, watery eyes staring wide into the darkness. Time held no meaning for him anymore—he couldn’t say whether it had been twenty minutes or two hours since he had broken free of his captors. Now all that was left in his mind was the relentless desire to move, to hunt. Normally the Congolese jungle held no fear for him, even at night. Although there were creatures in the dense forest that should be avoided, such as the stealthy leopards, the territorial gorillas and the wide variety of poisonous snakes, spiders and insects inhabiting the lush underbrush, Motumbo knew them all and how to avoid them. Growing up in the isolated northern region, the twenty-year-old had been
