State Of Evil

Bolan had taken on the job for old times’ sake

He was driven by feelings long suppressed if not forgotten, paying an installment on a debt of loyalty he knew would never fully be discharged. In truth, he didn’t want to cut that tie, however tenuous it was.

Sometimes even a scarred and bloodied warrior needed something to remind him of another time. Another life. It might be lost beyond recall, but memories were precious, all the same.

He palmed the GPS device and got his bearings, let the compact gadget point him toward his goal. A stranger waited for him there, not knowing it. Bolan had come to save that stranger from himself, at any cost.

Old ghosts kept pace with Bolan as he struck off through the jungle on a trail invisible to human eyes.

Other titles available in this series:

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

Lethal Tribute

Season of Slaughter

Point of Betrayal

Ballistic Force

Renegade

Survival Reflex

Path to War

Blood Dynasty

Ultimate Stakes

State of Evil

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

There is no arguing with the pretenders to a divine knowledge and to a divine mission. They are possessed of the sin of pride, they have yielded to the perennial temptation.

—Walter Lipmann,

The Public Philosophy

There’ll be no argument with my opponents on this mission. The plan is simple, in and out. God help anyone who stands in my way.

—Mack Bolan

For fighting men and women in harm’s way

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Obike, Republic of Congo

The congressman was sweating, which was no surprise, given the oppressive temperature and humidity. But climate couldn’t explain the tingling chill he felt at the back of his neck.

A sense of being watched.

He turned abruptly in his chair, raising a hand as if to swat a troublesome mosquito, and he caught one of Gaborone’s bodyguards turning away, suddenly anxious to avert his eyes.

It wasn’t paranoia, then.

The goons were watching him.

Lee Rathbun wished he’d never made this trip, but it was too late now for backing out. He was the youngest congressman in California, midway through his second two-year term in Washington and looking for a chance to prove himself. The Congo trip had fit his need, humanitarian and daring all at once, solving a problem, maybe bringing justice to a charlatan while overcoming certain hardships in the process.

Naturally he’d brought a camera crew along to put the show on tape. Why not?

The problem was that he’d been misinformed, somewhere along the line. Ahmadou Gaborone had that Jim Jones/David Koresh air about him, smiling serenely while chaos churned behind his eyes. He spoke sometimes in riddles, other times in parables that could mean anything or nothing. Typically, his voice was soft, almost hypnotic, but when raised to make a point during one of his marathon sermons, it shook the very primal forest that surrounded Obike, the retreat.

Lee Rathbun’s mission was twofold. First, he had promised to inspect Obike and report his findings to constituents whose loved ones had deserted sunny California for the jungle compound where Gaborone was constructing his tentative Eden on Earth. Second, he was supposed to interview the absent kin of those who had besieged his hometown office, seeking help. He would seek out the converts, take a private reading on their health and state of mind, and share his findings with their families.

Simple.

Aside from nailing down some grateful votes, the junket would earn him a page, maybe two, of fresh ink in the Congressional Record, when he filed his report with Congress.

Now he was almost done and it was nearly time to leave, but Rathbun couldn’t shake that creepy feeling that suggested hostile eyes tracking his every move.

One of the guards was moving toward him now, a sullen six-footer whose plaid short-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned, revealing an ebony six-pack that shone as if oiled. His AK-47, Gaborone had explained, was one the group used to protect them against Gaborone’s enemies, those who would harm him for spreading God’s message.

“Say goodbye now,” the guard told Rathbun. “Time to go.”

Rathbun smiled as if trying to win the man’s vote. Behind him, he heard one of the cameramen mutter, “It’s about damned time.”

“Smiles, people, smiles,” Rathbun said to his team. “Remember where we are, and that our host has been extremely generous.”

It was true, to a point. Gaborone had granted them a tour of Obike that revealed austere but functional facilities, the living quarters well tended and almost compulsively tidy. Rathbun’s interviews had also gone without a hitch, at least superficially. Those he sought were all accounted for and pleased to answer questions on their life within the sect.

As for the answers, rehearsed to the point that they all came out nearly verbatim, Rathbun didn’t choose to raise that issue in Obike. Not under the guns of Gaborone’s security force.

Relieved to put the place behind him after three long days and nights, Rathbun rose from his canvas chair and led his people toward the waiting bus.

NICO MBARGA WAITED with the vehicle. His scouts had left an hour earlier, to guard the airstrip and prepare the send-off Master Gaborone had ordered for the visitors. Mbarga wore the smile he deemed appropriate for partings.

The politician approached him, flicking glances at the old converted school bus that would take his people to the airstrip. Parked close behind the bus, a Jeep sat idling with four of Mbarga’s men waiting stoically for his order to roll. They watched Mbarga, not the visitors, because they knew who was their master, once removed.

“Will Mr. Gaborone be joining us?” the politician asked.

“Alas, no,” Mbarga replied. “He has other pressing business, but he wishes you a safe and pleasant journey home. He hopes your visit to Obike was rewarding and your fears are laid to rest.”

The politician frowned. “What fears?”

Mbarga shrugged. “Perhaps that kinfolk of your countrymen have been mistreated here or held against their will.”

The politician blinked. “I saw nothing to indicate that might be true,” he said.

“Good, good. You’re happy to be going home, then. Please take seats aboard the bus, and we shall go to meet your flight.”

Mbarga watched the visitors file past him, all except the politician bearing haversacks and camera equipment. When the last of them had gone aboard, Mbarga followed, nodding to the driver. He sat behind the driver’s seat, sliding his pistol belt around so that the holster with its heavy pistol wouldn’t dig into his hip or thigh.

Mbarga glanced around the bus as it began to move. The visitors—a woman and three men besides the politician—all wore queasy looks, as if their breakfast of plantains and porridge sat uneasily within their stomachs. Mbarga wondered whether any of them had the gift of precognition.

No, he finally decided, smiling to himself.

If that were true, they wouldn’t be aboard the bus.

Whatever they were thinking, it was now irrelevant.

“SO, WHERE’S THE PLANE?” asked Ellen Friedman, Rathbun’s personal assistant, as she stepped down from the bus.

“Good question.” Rathbun turned to the commander of the escorts and inquired, “Shouldn’t the plane be here by now?”

“Sometimes it’s late,” the bodyguard replied.

“Sometimes?”

“Most times,” the bodyguard amended with a careless shrug.

“We have a flight to catch in Brazzaville,” Rathbun informed him, fudging in an effort to communicate a sense of urgency.

“No problem, sir.”

Turning to scan the airstrip, Rathbun noted that a Jeep had reached the scene ahead of them, bearing four gunmen to the site. With those in the following Jeep and their escort, that left his small party outnumbered.

“Are you expecting trouble here, today?” he asked.

“Always expecting trouble, sir,” the bodyguard replied. “Prophets have many enemies.”

“I see.” Rathbun glanced pointedly at his wristwatch, then saw the gunmen stepping from their vehicles. They didn’t wear their rifles shoulder-slung this time, but carried them as if prepared to fire.

“This stinks,” said Andy Trask, the cameraman. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Relax, will you?” the congressman replied, but he was having trouble suiting words to action. There was something in the way the gunmen watched him now….

“Put down your bags,” their escort said, no longer sounding affable. When Rathbun turned to face him, he discovered that the man had drawn his pistol from its holster.

“What?”

“Put down all bags,” the bodyguard repeated. “Leave them where you stand and line up there.” His final word was punctuated with a gesture from the pistol, indicating open grass beyond the blunt nose of the bus.

“Now wait a minute,” Rathbun said. “What’s going on?”

“I only follow orders,” said the bodyguard.

“And what, exactly, might those orders be?”

“I must protect the master and Obike at all cost.”

“You still aren’t making sense.” Rathbun was striving for a tone of indignation, trying not to whimper. Even here, it was important to save face.

“All threats must be eliminated.”

“Threats? What threats? We’ve spent the past three days among your people, with consent from Mr. Gaborone. Now we’re leaving, as agreed. There’s no threat here.”

“I follow orders,” the bodyguard said again.

Rathbun felt the vicious worm of panic twisting in his gut, gnawing his vitals. It would break him if he faced the others, registered the sudden terror on their faces.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he said.

“Step into line. We have orders and a schedule.”

“Just think it through,” Rathbun pleaded. “If Mr. Gaborone is worried about bad publicity, what does he think this will accomplish? You’ll have troops, police, God knows who else, if we don’t get to Brazzaville on time.”

The escort shrugged. “We’re ready for the day of judgment. It will come in its own time.”

It was a sob that broke the last thin shell of Rathbun’s personal composure. Ellen Friedman weeping like a child. Rathbun hardly knew what he was doing when he shouted, “Run!” and drove his right fist hard into their escort’s startled face.

He missed the bastard’s nose but felt the lips mash flat beneath his knuckles, twenty years or more since he had swung a punch that way, at some forgotten enemy from John Wayne Junior High. It staggered his opponent, gave him time to turn and flee.

Too late.

A voice behind him shouted something Rathbun couldn’t understand. He heard the first gunshots when he was still some thirty paces from the trees. Rathbun was the last American to die.

“MY CHILDREN! Harken unto me!”

Ahmadou Gaborone occupied his favorite chair, a throne of woven cane planted atop a dais in the central plaza of Obike. Nearly all of his disciples were assembled on the open ground in front of him, summoned by the clanging of a triangle to hear their lord and master’s words. His bodyguards were shooing stragglers in from here and there, to join the tense, expectant throng.

“My children,” Gaborone repeated, “we have reached a perilous, decisive moment in our history. For three days, enemies have dwelt among us. They conspired with enemies outside to fill the air with lies about Obike and myself. Unchecked, they would have turned the governments of Brazzaville and Washington against us.”

Murmurs from the audience. Quick glances here and there from nervous eyes, as if his people thought the enemies might suddenly appear beside them.

“I have acted as a leader must, to spare his people,” Gaborone continued. “On my order to the guardsmen of Obike, the intruders have been neutralized. They are no more.”

That sent a ripple of surprise through the assembled crowd. Some of his followers were clearly frightened now. The master raised his hands, then stood when the familiar gesture failed to silence them.

“My children! Hear me!” he commanded. “Have no fear of those outside. You know that Judgment Day must come upon us in its own good time. Nothing we do can hasten or delay the hour of atonement. We shall someday face the test against our enemies. Whether tomorrow or ten years from now, I cannot say until the word is given from on high.”

“Master, preserve us!” someone cried out from the audience.

“I shall,” the prophet replied. “Fear no outside force or government. No man can harm us unless God permits it, and He never leaves His faithful children to be slain unless they first fail in their duties owed to Him.”

“What shall we do, Master?” another voice called from his right.

“Stand fast with me,” he answered. “Do God’s bidding as it is revealed to you, through me. With faith in Him, we cannot fail. His grace and power shield us from our worldly enemies and all their schemes. While we are faithful, those who threaten us are vulnerable to God’s holy cleansing fire.”

“Amen!” a handful of his children shouted, others taking up the chant until it seemed to echo from a single giant throat.

“Amen!” he thundered back at them. “Amen!”

Nico Mbarga stood beside the dais, waiting for Gaborone to step down and retreat from his throne. The chanting of “Amen!” continued even after he had left the audience, continued until he was well inside his quarters with Mbarga, just the two of them alone.

“Tell me again, Nico,” he said, “why you are certain that the bodies won’t be found.”

“We burned them, Master, and their ashes have been scattered in the jungle.”

“What of their effects? The camera? The other things?”

“Buried,” Nico assured him. “Buried deep.”

“There will be questions.”

Nico shrugged. “We saw them board the plane and fly away.”

“What of the pilot?”

“He has sisters in Obike. He will land in Brazzaville on schedule. How can he explain the disappearance of his passengers, once they departed from his care?”

“It’s not much of a story, Nico.” Gaborone sometimes enjoyed being the devil’s advocate.

“It is enough, Master,” the bodyguard replied. “We pay the Brazzaville police enough to close their eyes.”

“But what of Washington? Their President wields power, even here. Their dollars buy compliance.”

“You believe they’ll crack the pilot?” Mbarga asked.

“Given time and the incentive, certainly.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” Mbarga said.

“Soon, Nico. Soon.”

“I’ll leave tonight, Master.”

“How many sisters of the pilot share our faith?”

“Three, master.”

“Take one of them with you to the city.”

“Sir?”

“If he should simply die, more questions will be raised. A scandal in the family, however, raises issues the police can swiftly put to rest.”

“A scandal in the family.” Mbarga seemed to understand it now.

“Sadly, not everyone shares our view of morality.”

“No, sir. The woman—”

“Tell her she’s been chosen for a mission in the city. Flatter her, if necessary. Has she any special skills.”

Mbarga shrugged. “I don’t know, Master.”

“Think of something. Use your powers of persuasion, Nico. I’m convinced that you can do it.”

Meaning that he didn’t want the woman dragged aboard a Jeep, kicking and screaming. He didn’t want her spreading stories to her sisters or to anybody else during the short time left before her one-way trip to Brazzaville.

“It shall be done, Master.”

“I never doubted you. And, Nico?”

“Master?”

“Make me proud.”

CHAPTER ONE

Airborne: 14° 2’East, 4°8’South

The aircraft was a Cessna Conquest II, boasting a forty-nine-foot wingspan and twin turboprops with a maximum cruising speed of 290 miles per hour. It had been modified for jumping by removal of the port-side door, which let wind howl throughout the cabin as it cruised around eleven thousand feet.

The air was thin up there, but the aircraft was still below the level where Mack Bolan would’ve needed bottled oxygen to keep from blacking out. His pilot, Jack Grimaldi, didn’t seem to feel the atmospheric change, although he’d worn a leather jacket to deflect the chill.

Twenty minutes out of Brazzaville and they were halfway to the target. Bolan had already checked his gear, but gave it all another look from force of habit, nothing left to chance. He tugged at all the harness straps, tested the quick-release hooks, making sure that he could find the rip cords for the main chute on his back and the smaller emergency pack protruding from his chest. Bolan had packed both parachutes himself, folding the canopies and lines just so, and he was confident that they would function on command.

The rest of Bolan’s gear included military camouflage fatigues, the tiger-stripe pattern, manufactured in Taiwan and stripped of any labels that could trace them to specific points of origin. His boots were British military surplus, while his helmet bore the painted-over label of a manufacturer whose products were available worldwide.

His weapons had apparently been chosen from a paramilitary grab bag. They included a Steyr AUG assault rifle manufactured in Austria, adopted for use by armies and police forces around the world. The AUG was well known for its rugged construction and top-notch accuracy, its compact bullpup design, factory-standard optical sight and clear plastic magazines that let a shooter size up his load at a glance. Bolan’s sidearm was a Beretta Model 92, its muzzle threaded to accept the sound suppressor he carried in a camo fanny pack. His cutting tool was a Swiss-made survival knife with an eight-inch, razor-sharp blade, its spine serrated to double as a saw at need.

The rest of Bolan’s kit came down to rations and canteens, a cell phone with satellite feed, a compact GPS navigating system and a good old-fashioned compass in case the global positioning satellite gear took a hit at some point. His entrenching tool, flashlight and first-aid kit seemed antiquated by comparison, like items plucked from a museum.

When he was satisfied that nothing had been overlooked or left to chance, Bolan moved forward to the cockpit. Grimaldi glanced back when he was halfway there and raised his voice above the rush of wind to ask, “You sure about this, Sarge?”

“I’m sure,” Bolan replied. He crouched beside the empty second seat, too bulky with his parachutes and pack to make the fit.

“Because if anything goes wrong down there,” Grimaldi said, “you’re in a world of hurt. That’s Africa down there. If you trust the folks at CNN, a lot of it still isn’t all that civilized.”

“Worse than New Jersey?” Bolan asked. “The South Side of Chicago?”

“Very funny.” From his tone, Grimaldi clearly didn’t think so. “All I’m saying is, your sat phone may connect you to the outside world, if it decides to work down there, but even so, it’s still the outside world. You’ve got no backup, no support from anyone official, no supply line.”

“I’ve got you,” Bolan reminded him.

“And I’ll be waiting,” the pilot assured him. “But my point is, even if you call and catch me sitting in the cockpit with my finger on the starter, it’ll be an hour minimum before I’m in position for a pickup. Plus, with the restriction on armed aircraft, I can’t give you anything resembling decent air support.”

“Just be there for the lift. That’s all I ask,” Bolan replied.

Grimaldi shifted gears. “And what about this kid you’re picking up?”

“He’s twenty-two.”

“That’s still a kid to me,” Grimaldi said. “Suppose he doesn’t want to play the game?”

“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi frowned. “I mean to say, he’s here by choice. Correct?”

“In theory, anyway,” Bolan said.

“So he’s made his bed. He may not want to leave it.”

“I’ll convince him.”

Bolan didn’t need to check the hypodermic syringes in their high-impact plastic case, secure in a pouch on his web belt, but he raised a hand to cup them anyway. The kid, as Jack called him, would be coming out whether he liked it or not.

Whatever happened after that was up to someone else.

Grimaldi gave it one last try. “Listen,” he said, “I know where this is coming from, but don’t you think—”

“We’re here,” Bolan said, cutting off the last-minute debate. “I’m doing it. That’s all.”

“Okay. You’ve got my cell and pager set on speed-dial, right?”

“Right after Pizza Hut and Girls Gone Wild,” said Bolan.

“Jeez,” Grimaldi said, “I’m dropping a comedian. Who knew?”

“I needed something for my spare time,” Bolan said.

“Uh-huh.” Grimaldi checked his instruments, glanced at his watch, and said, “We’re almost there. You’d better assume the position.”

“Right.” Rising, Bolan briefly placed a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Stay frosty,” he said.

“It’s always frosty at this altitude. I’ll see you soon.”

Turning from the cockpit, Bolan made his way back to the open door, halfway along the Cessna’s fuselage.

“WE’VE GOT a quarter mile,” Grimaldi shouted back to Bolan in the Cessna’s open doorway, waiting for the quick thumbs-up.

Whatever was about to happen, it was out of Jack Grimaldi’s hands. He could abort the mission, turn the plane around and violate his old friend’s trust beyond repair, but that option had never seriously crossed his mind.