Executioner - Blood Circle Part 1

The Executioner.

Blood Circle.

By: Don Pendleton.

Revenge proves its own executioner. -John Ford, 1586-1639.

a revenge is always the delight of a mean spirit, of a weak and petty mind. -Juvenal, C. 50-c. 130.

A man bent on revenge is ruled by his emotions. If he comes at me without a clear head, I'll take him down. Count on it. -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 t.i.tle in the jungle h.e.l.l of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another namea"Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compa.s.sion 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 warriora"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 alliesa"Able Team and Phoenix Forcea"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.

PROLOGUE.

Bosnia.

The killer watched the Lincoln Continental wind through the streets of Sarajevo. Through the ten-power magnification of his weapon's optical sight, he could see the shadows of his targets through the car's tinted windows. He waited patiently, as the car was well within range. He had no doubt he could hit the vehicle at 1,800 meters if it was required. However, he would wait until the vehicle was well within the jaws of the trap. The Lincoln was in a convoy with two other vehicles. A four-wheel-drive Ford Explorer led the way, and another just like it followed behind as a rear guard. Each of the escort vehicles carried four armed Marine Corps emba.s.sy guards. The Lincoln carried the target, the Marine commander and three more armed Marines, as well.

The a.s.sa.s.sin watched the convoy approacha"three vehicles, with a full squad of United States Marines. It was an intriguing target. He had heard much in his career about United States Marines, but he had never had the opportunity to actually engage them in combat. He was well pleased with the opportunity. It would also give him a chance to test his confederates' mettle against something more substantial than unarmed men and unsuspecting women and children.

The killer spoke softly into his headset. "Do you have the targets in sight?"

His two flanking teams reported back. "Confirmed, target in sight."

The a.s.sa.s.sin nodded to himself as he watched the convoy approach down the street. From his fourth-floor vantage his targets wouldn't see him, even after he struck, and by then they would be too busy with the flanking teams. He smiled unpleasantly and spoke into the microphone again. "Wait for my signal."

"Confirmed."

The Lincoln Continental was the main target. Once it stopped, so would its escorts. The Lincoln's tires were self-sealing and bullet resistant. Its windows and body were guaranteed by the manufacturer to stop sh.e.l.l fragments and full-metal-jacket rifle bullets of up to NATO .308 caliber at point-blank range. The killer flicked off his weapon's safety lever with his thumb.

Unfortunately the car's designer had never envisioned the vehicle facing an opponent armed with a precision .50caliber rifle.

The killer focused the cross hairs of his scope on the center of the Lincoln's hood and fired.

The Barrett .50caliber semiautomatic rifle recoiled brutally against the man's shoulder. The 750-grain full-metal-jacket projectile tore through the Lincoln's hood and into its engine at over 2,900 feet per second. The engine screamed and came apart as it absorbed more than ten thousand foot-pounds of energy. The armored car fishtailed as the driver tried to retain control and take evasive action, but the engine was already dying as the second bullet hit it.

The a.s.sa.s.sin raised his sights to the tinted windshield as the car halted. His cross hairs focused on a spot half a foot above the left windshield wiper. He squeezed the trigger, and the windshield shattered under the blow. The driver slumped forward over the wheel as the immense bullet went through him and tore through the floorboards behind his seat.

The two other Marine vehicles screeched to a halt, and soldiers armed with M-16 rifles deployed rapidly. The killer chose one and smashed him to the ground with a .50caliber bullet through the chest. He spoke calmly into his headset.

"Now."

Automatic rifles opened up from windows facing both sides of the street. The killer smiled again. The Marines were living up to their reputations. They had swerved their cars diagonally and were using the car doors for cover as they covered a pair of their comrades who raced fearlessly for the Lincoln. The flanking teams poured fire into the escort vehicles, with more intent to disable them than to kill their crews. Still, four of the Marines were down already.

The doors of the Lincoln burst open, and Marines poured out. They linked up with the others and surrounded a tall man in an expensively tailored gray suit. The killer's eyes flared slightly as he examined the primary target. He could shoot him now, but that wasn't the plan. First they had to divest him of his Marine escort, and if he shot again he would betray his position.

The a.s.sa.s.sin nodded his approval as the Marines raced toward the shot-out building. The building's main doors had been shattered off their hinges and offered the security of darkness and solid cover. The plan was going perfectly.

They were racing straight toward him.

More of the Marines fell to the withering automatic fire of the flanking teams. The Marine commander, three of his men and the target reached the shelter of the building, then they were out of the killer's sight.

They were directly beneath him.

The killer rose from his firing position and folded his weapon's bipod. The Barrett .50caliber rifle was more than five feet long and weighed nearly thirty pounds loaded, but he handled it with the ease of a man carrying an infantry rifle. He pressed in a fresh 10-round magazine and moved to the stairs.

Below him he could hear the Marines returning fire out of the first-floor windows and one of them yelling desperately into a radio in English. The killer rounded the bottom of the stairwell and paused for a moment as he examined the scene. The three Marines had set themselves in a three-point triangle in the main lobby to give themselves interlocking lanes of fire across the entire front of the building and the street beyond. Their commander was back near the stairwell by the reception desk. He held a map in his hand and was busily giving coordinates over his radio. The target stood beside him.

The a.s.sa.s.sin brought the heavy rifle to his shoulder and came out of the stairwell firing.

The thundering report of the .50caliber weapon in the enclosed lobby was deafening. The first two Marines died before they knew what hit them as the immense projectiles tore them apart like rag dolls. The third Marine whirled to return fire, and the killer smashed him to the ground with a round through the chest. The Marines' armored vests were ineffective against the brutal power of the gigantic Barrett rifle.

The commander had dropped his map and radio. His rifle was propped by his knee against the reception desk, but he didn't bother to try to bring it to bear. He instinctively slapped leather for the .45 Colt automatic on his belt.

The killer's eyes flared as the .45 pistol barked at him, and he felt a punch against his armored vest. The ma.s.sive .50caliber rifle roared in return. The Marine commander hurtled back against the desk, then fell forward to the floor in a shattered heap.

The target's hand darted toward the Marine commander's rifle, then froze. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he took in his a.s.sa.s.sin. The target was a tall man, at least six foot one or two, but his head tilted back as he stared up in horror at his adversary's face.

The killer unslung the Barrett and moved toward his quarry, who suddenly broke for the door. The a.s.sa.s.sin reached behind his back to a wooden handle that protruded from behind his immense right shoulder. An entrenching tool came out of its nylon sheath with a rasp. The tool's short blackened shovel blade glinted in the gloom from where its edges had been honed to razor sharpness.

The entrenching tool was slightly over twenty inches long, and its blade formed a shallow wedge point. Its edges had been sharpened all around its circ.u.mference. The tool was extremely versatile and had proved itself in combat on several continents. Blows with the flat of the blade were paralyzing in riot situations. In close battle it was used as a deadly battle-ax capable of severing limbs. It was balanced for throwing, and a well-trained man could sink the blade into a car door up to twenty feet away. It was a standard joke that in an emergency the tool could even be used to dig a hole.

As the target scrambled for the door, the killer squinted one eye as he aimed and let the shovel fly in an overhand throw. it whistled through the air end over end and buried itself in the middle of the target's back. The target screamed and fell to the floor a few feet short of the door.

The a.s.sa.s.sin strode forward and yanked the weapon out of the target's back and rolled him over with the toe of his boot. The man looked up at him in agony. The members of the flanking teams began to enter the building and nodded appreciatively at what they saw. The killer wiped the shovel blade and replaced it in its sheath and surveyed the battle ground. The Marines were all dead. They had fought well, but they had never really stood a chance. He glanced down at the target.

This man was a different matter. He was still alive, and he was to be made an example of. Two members of the flanking teams strode forward in camouflage and olive drab ski masks. They drew their knives, and the target moaned in terror. The killer grimaced. The Marine commander had gotten on the radio, and United Nations peacekeeping forces would be arriving quickly. There would be little time to enjoy the work or make the target suffer, but they would certainly leave something interesting for the would-be rescuers to find.

The killer drew his combat knife and bent to his grisly task.

1.

Washington, D.C.

Hal Brognola's face tightened as he looked at the photograph on the table before him. He steeled himself as he picked it up and examined it more closely. He had been with the Stony Man team for a long time and had worked for the organized-crime unit of the Justice Department for even longer. In the course of his long career, Brognola had seen human depredation in its worst forms.

The state of the human body in the photograph chilled him to the bone.

The President of the United States regarded Hal Brognola from across his desk. The big Fed had never seen the Man like this. His face was locked in a glare of stone-cold rage. Brognola swallowed and put the photograph back on the desk. "Who is it?"

The a.s.sistant secretary of state spoke icily from the chair at Brognola's left. The man was a study in controlled anger. "Those are the remains of Special Envoy Kyle Albrecht."

Brognola blinked. Albrecht had been a key negotiator for the State Department in the crisis in Bosnia and an integral part of the administration's peace plan. The remains in the photo rivaled anything the big Fed had seen done to informants by the Mafia or the Colombian drug cartels. Albrecht had been butchered alive.

"Has anyone claimed responsibility?"

The director of Central Intelligence shook his head slowly. "No."

"Do we have any theories?"

The CIA director grimaced. "As I am sure you are aware, Mr. Brognola, no faction in the crisis in former Yugoslavia has a patent on terrorism or war crimes. Europe hasn't seen these kind of wholesale atrocities since the n.a.z.is, and all sides have partic.i.p.ated. Take your picka"Serbs, Muslims, Croats, the streets are running red whichever way you look."

Brognola nodded. War was an ugly thing, and civil war uglier still. Civil war based on religion and ethnic hatred was as ugly as it came. "Yes, but as far as I'm aware, this is the first deliberate-" Brognola searched for a word as he took in the photograph again "-a.s.sa.s.sination of an American diplomat in Bosnia."

The President's voice was as cold as the grave. "It's going to be the last."

The State Department man cleared his throat. "The President has suggested sending in Delta Force. I prevailed upon him to wait until you could be summoned."

Brognola raised a curious eyebrow. The State Department had little knowledge of his actual function, and what they suspected they highly disliked. For them to suggest his involvement to the President spoke to the gravity of the situation. "What happened?"

"Mr. Albrecht was being transported to a meeting. He had a full squad of Marines from the reinforced emba.s.sy guard as an escort. All three of the vehicles in the convoy were disabled. All twelve of the Marines were killed, including the commander. Apparently survivors of the initial attack made it to a shot-up building. It seems they were flanked, and the rest of the Marines were killed. Then what you saw was done to Mr. Albrecht. The Marines managed to get out a distress call on radio and reported their position in the building. French troops were scrambled and arrived on the scene within fifteen minutes. They found the convoy wiped out. Their attackers had disappeared."

Brognola frowned. "I gather the radio message never described the attackers."

The CIA man shook his head. "No. Just that they were under heavy attack. The French found some evidence, but not much. There were lots of sh.e.l.l casings lying around. A lot of them were from U.S.-issue M-16s, as you would expect. The attack came from both sides of the convoy, and lots of sh.e.l.l casings from AK-47 rifles were found on both flanks. That doesn't tell us much, either. Everyone in the conflict over there is using loads of ex-Communist bloc weapons. What is interesting is that five of the Marines were shot with a weapon firing .50caliber heavy machine gun bullets. The armored limousine was disabled with .50caliber bullets, as well."

Brognola shrugged. "So they had a Browning heavy machine gun. They're used all over the world."

The CIA man shook his head again. "No. Each Marine took one hit in the chest. The limousine took three, two in the engine block and one through the windshield to kill the driver. It was precision shooting on the street. Ballistics indicate the same weapon was used to kill the Marines in the lobby. A Browning .50caliber heavy machine gun is a crew-served weapon. Whoever did the killing in the lobby was using the weapon like a semiautomatic a.s.sault rifle."

The big Fed blinked. "A Barrett .50."

The CIA director nodded coolly. "Indeed."

Brognola mulled that over. The Stony Man teams had used the Barrett .50 in a number of actions. But it was a thirty-pound sniping rifle. Using one to clear a room in close-quarters battle was insane. But apparently the user had taken out four armed Marines in just such a fashion. "It would take one h.e.l.l of a large individual to do something like that."

"Yes, it would." The CIA man grimaced. "You can't really tell it through all the rest of the trauma, but according to the autopsy, Mr. Albrecht's cause of death was a broken neck. The vertebrae and the spinal column were severed. Bruising patterns of the throat indicate it was done by hand. A pair of very large hands. Mr. Albrecht's a.s.sailants butchered him with knives while he was still alive, then snapped his neck to finish it quickly and evacuate. Probably when they heard the French armored vehicles approaching. That's our best guess." The man sighed and turned to the President. "Sir?"

The chief executive steepled his hands on the desktop. "Gentlemen, I would like a moment alone with Mr. Brognola if you please."

The men filed out of the room. As the door closed, the President almost seemed to be looking through Brognola without seeing him. He spoke almost as if he were talking to himself. "Kyle Albrecht was a good friend of mine. I'm the one who appointed him as a special envoy and sent him to his death. It has been repeatedly pointed out to me today that I can't allow my personal feelings to color my judgment in this matter." The President locked eyes with Brognola. "I realize I can't just send in Delta Force and kill everything that moves. The United Nations would have a fit, and many of our allies wouldn't stand for it. For that matter we can't be sure yet who did it. But even if my personal feelings were not involved, an American peace envoy has been brutally a.s.sa.s.sinated. He was used as a s.a.d.i.s.tic example. For what, we aren't sure yet, but I'm sure it has to do with United States policy in the region. I want those responsible found, and I want them terminated. Quickly, and with extreme prejudice."

Brognola met the President's stare. "You want to send in Striker."

The President nodded slowly. "I want Mack Bolan in Sarajevo within the next forty-eight hours."

2.

Mack Bolan stood in the misting rain in Sarajevo. The streets were dirty and gray, and broken gla.s.s crunched under his boots. Somewhere off in the distance he heard the crack of a rifle shot. His "guide" stood before him. The Bosnian was a short wiry man with a Chinese-manufactured AKM a.s.sault rifle crooked in his arms, and an Egyptian Tokarev automatic clone was holstered at his hip. Bolan smothered his irony. The United Nations arms embargo didn't seem to be having much of an effect. On his belt the man also carried a pair of Russian-made offensive hand grenades and a horn-handled hunting knife that appeared to be locally made.

The man was obviously a veteran. His short black hair was peppered with gray in a military crew cut that had started to grow out. His face was heavily lined, and his gray eyes glared out of a sunken, and seemingly permanent, piercing squint. He had the look of a man who had been in-country for a very long time. Bolan had seen the look many times before. In the United States military it was called the thousand-yard stare. There were no short-timers in a civil war. For this man, in-country was his backyard.

Bolan would have preferred to have been better armed himself, but the cover of free-lance war correspondent limited his armament options. Beneath his quilted black leather jacket he carried a snub-nosed 9 mm Smith & Wesson Centennial revolver, and a skeleton-handled stiletto rode on his ankle under his khaki pants. In his camera bag he carried a Canon F-1 35 mm camera and his Leica laser range-finding binoculars, and beneath the false bottom of the bag rested his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle pistol and five spare magazines.

The soldier smiled in a friendly fashion, and the little man peered up at him narrowly. He scrutinized Bolan's photo-ID press card again and spoke in heavily accented English.

"Canadian, huh?"

Bolan nodded.

The man's face brightened slightly. "Canada, good skiing, huh?"

Bolan grinned. "The best." He jerked his thumb toward the snow-capped peaks just south of Sarajevo. The Jahorina Mountains had been the site of the 1984 Olympic Winter Games. "Though I haven't skied Jahorina yet. I hear it's some of the best in Europe."

The man grinned up at Bolan crookedly. "Yes, Jahorina is very good skiing." He sighed heavily. "I have not skied in a very long time." He dismissed the subject with a shrug. "You work for CNN?"

"If I can give them a story they want, they'll pay me." Bolan shrugged in return. "If not, then maybe I'll work for Reuters."

The man grunted. "Very well. My name is Viado Sarcev, lieutenant, Muslim Militia of Sarajevo. You wish to accompany me and my men on a patrol. I will allow this, but you must follow orders at all times. I warn you now I will accept no responsibility for your being wounded or killed."

Bolan nodded. It was fair enough. "I understand."

"Good. Let us go." He jerked his head at the other thirteen men in combat fatigues who were lounging around smoking cigarettes under an awning. Sarcev's oversize squad was heavily reinforced with special weapons. The largest man in the group was leaning on an RPK light machine gun, with belts of ammunition slung all around his body. The man next to him carried an RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher over his shoulder, and an Uzi submachine gun was slung across his chest. One man who appeared to be sleeping crouched on his heels cradling a Russian Dragunov semiautomatic sniper rifle. Nearly every man in the squad carried a personal hodgepodge of handguns, knives and grenades, as well as his rifle. Bolan smiled slightly. Despite the supposed cease-fire of the week, things were still deadly serious in Sarajevo.

The driver gunned the engine of the olive drab Mercedes utility truck, and Bolan climbed into the back behind Sarcev as the rest of the men clambered in. The vehicle ground into gear and with a lurch pulled out into the street. The Executioner scanned the sh.e.l.led high rises as they drove along and turned to his companion as they headed out into the suburbs.