Justice Run

Interventionism Under Fire

With Europe in economic turmoil, a small fascist group led by a powerful German industrialist plans to bring the continent under one leader. But first they must weaken the U.S. so it can’t interfere. The idea is simple…. Except conspiracists don’t count on Mack Bolan.

In Bolan’s search for a missing federal agent, he finds himself in a bloody firefight at the heavily guarded estate of an international arms dealer. As the bodies pile up around him, though, intel begins to paint a picture much bigger than one missing American. It’s a picture with devastating global repercussions—and the U.S. is about to take the first, calculated hit. Bolan must chase a burning fuse across Europe and America to prevent this promised fascist takeover.

A million things could go wrong, but they had to go in anyway.

The helicopter touched down and Bolan was the first one out. He dropped into a crouch and watched for any threats while the others disembarked.

The carnage was striking. The soldier counted two helicopters, their twisted and charred remains at ten o’clock and three o’clock. Fire ate the frames and pumped thick black columns of smoke into the sky. A quick sweep of the terrain revealed five dead uniformed guards. A couple of the corpses bobbed facedown in the swimming pool, the water around them clouded with blood. The bodies of two other men, both in black, were sprawled on the ground. Bolan assumed they were part of Geiger’s crew.

He also saw the bodies of at least a half dozen men and women in khaki pants and dark green polo shirts. They seemed to be equipped with holsters, additional magazines and handcuffs. Campaign hats lay on the ground near a couple of the shot-up guards. It hadn’t been a fight; it had been a slaughter.

Justice Run

Don Pendleton

Justice is justly represented blind, because she sees no difference in the parties concerned. She has but one scale and weight, for rich and poor, great and small.

—William Penn

Some Fruits of Solitude

Justice may be blind, but I am her eyes, forever seeking out those who would escape punishment.

—Mack Bolan

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PROLOGUE

Monaco

Three months earlier

He had to get out of there.

The elevator doors parted and Fred Gruber burst from the confined space. He found himself surrounded by the sounds of meat sizzling, knives striking cutting boards and people shouting at one another in French. He looked around and saw men and women dressed in white chef hats and stained aprons standing at cooking stations, cutting vegetables or cooking meat on large griddles. On any other day, the amateur chef would’ve considered this a gift from heaven, a chance to watch skilled cooks make five-star French cuisine.

This night he couldn’t have cared less.

He just wanted to stay alive.

At first he tried walking fast through the kitchen, hoping to pass through with a minimum of fuss. He had covered maybe ten paces when one of the chefs, a heavyset man with a handlebar mustache, spotted him. Without setting down his utensils, the guy turned toward Gruber.

“What are you doing?” the chef demanded in French. “You can’t come in here.”

Without breaking his pace, Gruber forced a smile on his face and closed the distance between them.

“Sorry,” Gruber, an American, replied in the same language. “I am lost.”

Gruber brushed past the man, who was offering to help him find his way, but Gruber tried to ignore the man. On the other side of the kitchen, he saw an exit door. He wanted to get through it, step into the warm Monaco evening and run like hell to his car.

He wore blue suit pants, black wingtips and a white broadcloth dress shirt. The tails of the shirt were pulled out of his waistband. His tie was where he’d left it, looped over the back of a mahogany chair. His Glock was stuffed into his waistband.

Before he could take another step, he felt a hand clamp heavily on his left shoulder. His stomach plummeted and he whirled. His right hand slipped up under his shirt, fingers curling around the pistol’s grip, while his other one slapped the man’s hand away. In a heartbeat the chef’s expression went from mildly irritated to surprise. Gruber took a step back from the guy, ready to order him to back off, when he heard the elevator ding followed by the whoosh of the opening doors.

Gruber yanked the Glock from his waistband and displayed it so the chef could see it. The guy’s face paled and he stepped back. Gruber wheeled and resumed his sprint for the door, shoving other members of the kitchen staff from his path. Judging by the screams, the slap of footsteps against the floor and the clatter of dishes breaking, pandemonium had broken out behind him. Though his pursuers likely were armed, he doubted they’d try shooting at him in this crowd or, for that matter, in this building. The hotel catered to the rich and powerful, which included police chiefs and military generals. The last thing the people chasing him wanted was official attention. They had been operating in the shadows for years. Gruber had no doubt they wanted to keep it that way.

That’s why they wanted to stop him. He’d spent a couple of weeks in Berlin, rooting around for information. What he’d found had knocked him on his ass. Enough so that he’d considered contacting his old cronies in Washington. He’d dismissed the idea outright. What he knew just seemed too fantastic. If he called his friends at the Bureau, they might not believe him. They might even assume he was bored in retirement and trying to drum up excitement and relive his glory days.

He wouldn’t have blamed them.

Then he’d come to Monaco, to put some final pieces together. Gruber knew their plans; he knew the players. He finally had some proof. Now all he needed was to share what he knew.

When Gruber reached the exit, he pushed down on the release bar, shoved the door open and ran outside, barely slowing at all. The night was warm, with a light breeze. But the stench of rotting food rising up from the garbage bins hung in the air. He’d put several yards between himself and the kitchen by the time he heard the door slam closed behind him. Arms and legs pumping hard, he tried to gather speed as he put some distance between himself and the building.

He hadn’t expected to end up in this situation, running for his life. A former FBI agent, he figured he’d left all the dangerous stuff behind when he had retired from the Bureau, got his PI license and started chasing wayward spouses for a daily fee plus expenses. Then he’d gotten a call from an old man offering incredible money. What did he have to do to earn it? The old man sat on a corporate board with another guy who as of late had been disappearing for days on end. Money had been disappearing from the company’s coffers, too. Could Gruber look into it? The old man was willing to pay a retainer, put him up in sweet hotels and make sure he ate like a damn king.

Hell, yeah, Gruber could look into it.

Idiot.

He’d be lucky if he lived to spend his retainer.

When he reached the sprawling parking lot at the back of the hotel, he heard footsteps pounding against the pavement behind him. Pumping his arms and legs harder, he darted between a pair of parked cars.

His first inclination was to turn and fire on his pursuers. A warning shot over their heads might make them back off. He dismissed the idea. If he was still a U.S. federal agent, he’d do it and hope he could avoid any legal problems. As a private detective he had no authority, including the authority to carry or discharge a pistol in a foreign city. He’d bought the gun from a contact here in Monaco. When he asked the guy whether the gun was hot, the man had just smiled, knocked fifty dollars off the price and told Gruber to stow the questions.

Gruber heard something slap against one of the cars. He glanced down and saw a spiderweb had formed on the rear window of the vehicle, followed a heartbeat later by second bullet sparking off the car’s roof and zipping into the darkness.

They had sound suppressors.

Gruber dropped to one knee an instant before a storm of bullets pounded into the cars on either side of him, drilling holes in the bodywork. Slugs pierced tires, flattening them, as other rounds lanced through the windows.

Jesus, if he didn’t fight back, they were going to kill him right here. He hadn’t expected this. But either he was dealing with true believers willing to go to jail for their cause or they had enough money to buy their way out of trouble.

From what Gruber knew, it was a little of both. He was dealing with fanatics and they had money.

Moving in a crouch, he backed away from the shooters, sticking as close as possible to the silver Mercedes to his right. The cars were parked nose-in, so the bullets were piercing the trunk lids, the rear quarter panels and the roofs.

When Gruber reached the Mercedes’ front bumper, he saw it was parked a couple of feet from the front bumper of another luxury sedan. Rounding the car’s front end, he sandwiched himself between the two vehicles and popped his head up in time to see one of his pursuers—a guy built like a pro wrestler with the long, bleached hair to match—closing in on the car. He had his pistol extended forward in a two-handed grip, and Gruber could see a wisp of smoke coming out of the sound suppressor.

The guy was so intent on looking at where he’d last seen Gruber that he failed to see the former federal agent from his new position. Resting both arms on the car’s hood, Gruber drew down on the man, exhaled and squeezed off a shot.

The Glock roared and the shooter jerked back, as though hit by an invisible baseball bat. Releasing the pistol from his hands, he grabbed at his throat and collapsed to the ground.

To the former Fed’s right, a second thug togged in a loud Hawaiian shirt popped up from behind a parked car and squeezed off a couple of shots. The PI felt one of the bullets zing past his left ear. He folded down between the cars again, grinding his teeth as slugs pelted the Mercedes.

After a couple of seconds the shooting ceased and Gruber guessed his opponent was reloading. Rising slightly, he peered over the Mercedes’ pocked hood and saw the guy had dropped out of sight.

It also occurred to him that three guys had followed him from the hotel.

In the distance he heard sirens wailing and, out of reflex, he felt relief wash over him.

Yeah, he hadn’t wanted any legal entanglements. But that was before these bastards showed just how determined they were. Plus, the FBI agent and lawyer in him balked at running from a dead body, especially when he was the killer. Maybe he’d be safer in police custody. They’d contact his embassy, he’d tell them what he knew and Washington would, hopefully, swoop in to help.

They’d have to do something. Even if they didn’t help him, they had to stop the hell that was going to unfold across Europe.

He peered over the hood again and saw Mr. Hawaiian Shirt creeping across the parking lot toward him. Gruber raised the Glock and snapped off a couple of shots at the guy. The gunner flinched and darted out of sight.

The sirens were louder and closer.

Gruber heard the rustle of cloth behind him. He wheeled. A shoe sole hit him in the jaw and knocked him on his side. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.

Another man, the third guy who’d disappeared, stood over him, his sound-suppressed weapon aimed at Gruber.

“Please to drop the weapon,” the man said.

Gruber loosened his grip and the weapon clattered to the ground.

The guy grinned.

“You can’t stop this,” he said. “It’s gone too far.”

The gun whispered once. A bullet slammed into Gruber’s forehead and thrust him into blackness.

* * *

THE ALARM ON Reinhard Vogelsgang’s wristwatch beeped three times, interrupting his train of thought as he pored over the most recent profit-and-loss statements.

Clicking off the alarm, he removed his wire-framed reading glasses, set them on his desk blotter and rose from his chair.

Crossing the office, he moved to a rectangular panel built into the wall and surrounded on all four sides by wood molding. He pressed a small stud and the panel slid away, only the slight hum of a motor audible from behind the wall. Behind the panel was a recessed area that contained a large video monitor. He snagged a remote from inside the compartment, switched on the monitor and thumbed the button that turned on the screen.

The phone call had come twelve hours ago. The news he received had left a knot in his stomach and had forced him to make a decision. Considering the stakes, it’d been an easy one. Even so, the ramifications could bring all sorts of hell crashing down on his head if he didn’t handle it correctly.

The screen was separated into four boxes. In the far right corner sat an elderly man in a dark blue suit. In a box beneath him, the image of a woman was visible. The meeting’s third participant was late, as usual, joining the call two minutes after the start time.

“I guess we can begin now,” Vogelsgang said as the latest participant, Werner Nacht, a construction-industry magnate, seated himself.

“So sorry,” Nacht said.

“It’s nothing,” Vogelsgang replied.

“I was caught in a meeting.”

“Of course. No doubt it was more important.”

Nacht laced his fingers and leaned toward the camera.

“Tremendously important,” he said. “Shall I share?”

Vogelsgang shook his head.

“I think we’ve lost enough time,” he said.

“No, really. This has more than a little relationship to our work here.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about Monaco. I think everyone wants to know about that. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Vogelsgang forced a smile. “Of course. Please update everyone.”

“A private detective was killed tonight, shot down in the streets by a couple of thugs. They accosted him in his hotel and chased him into the street. Awful business.”

“Awful,” Vogelsgang agreed.

“Would you like to tell the rest of the story, or shall I?”

Vogelsgang swallowed hard. His forced smile fading, he shrugged and leaned into the camera. “We had a problem,” he said. “Someone sent a private detective after me. The man was better than we anticipated. He figured a few things out. I had him eliminated.”

The woman leaned forward.

“You what?” she asked. “You had him killed? Without discussing it with us?”

The executive’s smile faded. “Let me assure you, it needed to be taken care of. I had no time to consult you. Frankly, I saw no reason. The decision was painfully obvious.”

Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she stayed silent.

“What did he know?” asked the elderly man, a media mogul who owned two newspapers, three television stations and a book publishing operation.

Shrugging, Vogelsgang backed away from the large monitor and lowered himself into a leather chair. He knew what was coming and he wanted the best view possible. He responded to the old man’s question with silence.

After several seconds the old man’s face reddened. “Damn it,” he said, his voice growing louder, “what did he know? Did he know everything?”

Another shrug from Vogelsgang, who busied himself staring at his drink.

“He knew a few things,” Vogelsgang said finally. “He knew a surprising number of things for someone who’d come out of nowhere, a foreigner, in fact. He had credentials and experience, of course, but could barely speak the language.”

Vogelsgang turned his eyes up from his drink.

“He could barely speak German or French. Yet he pieced together so much information. He even started to tie me to the United Front. It was amazing, as though someone was feeding him information.” He paused and let his words sink in. “An insider, I mean.”

The woman, Katharina Rothschild, leaned away from the camera and licked her lips. “Do you know who hired him?” she asked, her voice husky.

“I have some ideas,” Vogelsgang said. “A hypothesis, really. Nothing more.”

He dipped an index finger into his drink and stirred it.

“It’s a bit early for a drink, I suppose. Still, I’m feeling good, feeling as though things are moving forward. A drink seems in order. I digress, though, Katharina. You’d asked me a question and I owe you an answer. No, I don’t know who hired our dead friend. My thought— My theory, if you will, is someone close to me hired him. Maybe someone who’s getting cold feet, someone who’s lost her sense of vision.”

He saw fear flicker in Rothschild’s eyes. “‘Her’?” she asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Her. You said ‘her.’ Surely you don’t think I hired the man, do you?”

He made a dismissive gesture.

“Just a theory,” he said. “Okay, a little more than a theory, actually. We grabbed his cell phone and his laptop and scoured the hell out of those things. So it’s a theory based on evidence.”

The old man leaned toward his camera. “Katharina? Katharina, did you do as he says? Why would you do this?”

“I did no such thing!”

“Please, everyone, please calm down,” Vogelsgang said. “Let’s pull it together. Katharina, I admit it was a bit of a shock at first. However, now I want to thank you.”

Nacht, the construction executive, laughed derisively.

“Thank her?” he asked. “For betraying us? Have you lost your mind?”

Vogelsgang shook his head slowly. “Lost my mind? Quite the contrary. I feel as though I’ve gained it. For the first time in years, since I first began all the hard work on this, I’m really seeing how this works. See, I don’t... No, I can’t trust you people. I’ve suspected that for some time. And now you’ve proved me right. This thing I want to accomplish, this thing Europe and the world needs so badly, I must accomplish it by myself.”

“You’re throwing us out?” It was Nacht again. “Damn you, I’ve sunk millions into this! You can’t just toss us aside like this.”

“I appreciate your passion, Werner. It’s a business decision. Surely you of all people can appreciate that. Rest assured I’m not going to toss you aside or dissolve the partnership.”

“Well, what the devil are you talking about then?”

“It’s a liquidation.”

Nacht continued to protest as did the others. Vogelsgang pressed the mute button on his remote control and blissful silence fell over the room. He felt the anticipation building, a ticklish sensation in his stomach that spread to his groin.

The woman suddenly whipped her head to the side and appeared to gasp. She slapped a hand over her chest, as if to keep her heart from jumping out. Vogelsgang turned the volume back up just in time to hear a scream burst from her lips. From off screen, gunshots sounded and one slapped into her forehead, knocking her from her chair. His team would make sure it looked like a robbery, just as they’d made the detective’s murder look like a mugging.

Vogelsgang sat transfixed as the others died on-screen, one right after the next. A man togged in black, his face covered by a ski mask, jabbed a needle into the old man’s neck. His heart problems were common knowledge among friends, politicians and the financial press. Though he was ninety-three, he’d placed himself on a transplant list for a new heart.

He needn’t have bothered.

The syringe’s contents would result in a heart attack and be virtually undetectable in an autopsy.

In the other screen, Werner’s head was tilted to the right. Dead eyes stared at the camera, but his body was still. A black-suited figure stood behind the executive, still pulling on the rope looped around his neck. Vogelsgang’s mercenaries would make Werner’s death look like a suicide. A couple of his high-profile deals had gone south in the past few months, which would make suicide plausible.

Vogelsgang clicked a button on the remote control and the monitor went black.

The brush with the detective had been too close. He’d devoted too much time and money bringing this plan together to have it fall apart because of betrayal. There was too much at stake.

Looking up at the monitor, he focused on the image of the old man. Vogelsgang had known the man for decades. But looking at him now, he just felt cold. Vogelsgang knew he’d kill 100—hell, 1,000 more—just like this man to realize his vision.

Let the bloodletting begin.

CHAPTER ONE

Monaco

Present day

Jacques Dumond lived on an estate on the outskirts of Monte Carlo. A stone security wall surrounded the property, obscuring the grounds from passersby.

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was at the wheel of a black Jaguar sedan. He guided the vehicle past the front gate. Peering through the windshield, he studied a pair of men standing outside a wrought-iron gate that led into the estate.

Though he could see no weapons, Bolan assumed the grim-faced men were guards because they seemed more focused on their surroundings than interacting with each other. And the smaller of the two, a slim guy decked out in a black suit, was holding what appeared to be a two-way radio in his right hand. The other guy—dressed in jeans, a white shirt and an ill-fitting blue sport coat, his bald head glinting under the streetlights—fixed his gaze on Bolan’s car as it glided past. The Jaguar was outfitted with black-tinted windows that prevented the big man from seeing anything other than his reflection as Bolan wheeled by.

Leo Turrin was in the front passenger’s seat. He nodded at the man watching their car.

“The big guy is yours,” Turrin said. “I’ll take the little one.”

“Thanks.”

Bolan drove three more blocks, making sure he was well out of the guards’ sight before he turned right. He drove another two blocks before making another right and maneuvering around the rear of the estate.

Pulling the car up to a curb, the soldier’s mind reeled through key facts about his target.

Before falling from grace, Dumond had been a high-level French soldier who specialized in counterterrorism operations. After a decade he’d moved to the dark side. His business card read “security expert,” but in truth he worked as a mercenary and enforcer for some of the world’s most vicious regimes. He’d led death squads in Sudan and Sierra Leone, trained antigovernment killers in Colombia and provided muscle for Mexican drug cartels. A scrape in that country had cost him his left eye. Apparently, once he moved into his mid-forties, he’d decided it was easier to sell guns than wield them. He began selling arms to some of the same criminal regimes he’d once worked for. The experts back in Washington disagreed on his exact body count, but knew it was significant, at least two-thirds of it being women and children murdered in the world’s conflict zones.