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The Executioner stared into the man’s eyes
“You aren’t a Tiger. Who are you working for?”
An evil smile curled the lips of the man on the ground. “You will never know,” he spit.
“What have you got planned for America?” Bolan asked. He could see that the man’s time was growing short. He’d bleed out in a few minutes. “What’s Subing going to pull off in the States?”
“That…I will…you,” the dying terrorist said, “because you…will never find him in time.” He paused, then breathed out one faint and final word. “Nuke.”
Charlie Latham looked at Bolan. “Oh, hell.”
Other titles available in this series:
Deadfall
Onslaught
Battle Force
Rampage
Takedown
Death’s Head
Hellground
Inferno
Ambush
Blood Strike
Killpoint
Vendetta
Stalk Line
Omega Game
Shock Tactic
Showdown
Precision Kill
Jungle Law
Dead Center
Tooth and Claw
Thermal Strike
Day of the Vulture
Flames of Wrath
High Aggression
Code of Bushido
Terror Spin
Judgment in Stone
Rage for Justice
Rebels and Hostiles
Ultimate Game
Blood Feud
Renegade Force
Retribution
Initiation
Cloud of Death
Termination Point
Hellfire Strike
Code of Conflict
Vengeance
Executive Action
Killsport
Conflagration
Storm Front
War Season
Evil Alliance
Scorched Earth
Deception
Destiny’s Hour
Power of the Lance
A Dying Evil
Deep Treachery
War Load
Sworn Enemies
Dark Truth
Breakaway
Blood and Sand
Caged
Sleepers
Strike and Retrieve
Age of War
Line of Control
Breached
Retaliation
Pressure Point
Silent Running
Stolen Arrows
Zero Option
Predator Paradise
Circle of Deception
Devil’s Bargain
False Front
Mack Bolan®
Don Pendleton
Whatever deceives seems to exercise a kind of magical enchantment.
—Plato,
The Republic, III, c.350 B.C.
There are two kinds of evil in this world—the kind that’s planned, reveled in and enjoyed, and the kind to which men who are otherwise good fall prey during weak moments. Many have been the victim of the latter. My mission is to obliterate the former.
—Mack Bolan
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
The smell was what he noticed first, a blend of old and new. At one time there had been cattle in the building and the scent of manure still lingered. Hay had been stored in the second-floor loft but it had molded away, leaving only its stench.
The scents of rotted wood and unwashed human bodies, however, were current. Old and new, the numerous odors combined to produce a smell far more nauseating than any one could have generated by itself and, as he stepped into the barn, the foul mixture hit Candido Subing like a baseball bat between the eyes.
Subing stopped just inside the door. One odor was separate from the others and seemed to rise alone above them. And it filled the air like a hanging corpse.
Fear.
Subing had caught the man following him off guard with his sudden stop and his fellow freedom fighter slammed into his