Lethal Compound

They were pinned

The dogs and trackers came behind them. Men on horseback soon followed. Bolan watched them from behind cover. He clicked his radio. “Piet, what have you got up front?”

“Armed men, platoon strength,” Piet said.

Bolan glanced at Gilad. “Anything?”

Gilad and the guide spoke in whispered Russian. Gilad shook his head. “He says he doesn’t know who these guys are. He says despite their clothes they are not Tajik.”

Bolan surveyed their trackers. “Piet, how are the guys ahead of us armed?”

“It’s all Russian kit.”

“My guys are all carrying Chinese weapons,” Bolan said and clicked his radio. “Eckhart, you there?”

“I copy, Coop.”

“I think the people in front and behind are two different groups.”

Eckhart wasn’t panicking yet but he was clearly agitated. “What are you saying, Coop?”

“I’ve got a theory these guys have two different agendas.” Bolan lowered his binoculars and looked at the ex-Ranger. “I say we introduce them and watch what happens.”

Lethal Compound

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

He who seizes on the moment, he is the right man.

—Johann Goethe

1749–1832

Faust

When the enemy attacks, my only option is to seize whatever opportunity comes my way.

—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 title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion 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 warrior—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 allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—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.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

1

Atascadero, California

Gary Manning sighed as he sat in the sniper-hide and scanned the trees with his night-vision binoculars. “I hate babysitting jobs,” he grumbled.

Mack Bolan silently agreed. He scanned the surrounding central California oak forest. Body-guarding and babysitting were nearly synonymous in his book. You waited for the enemy to do something and then reacted to it. That was a recipe for disaster as the reaction often ended up happening after the damage was done. The man known as the Executioner was proactive. He believed in getting to the enemy before they could act.

“And babysitting billionaires?” Manning continued. “What’s up with that?”

“He likes hunting.” Bolan countered. “He can’t be all bad.”

Manning grunted noncommittally. The big Canadian was an avid hunter himself and had personally whiled away many a happy hour of his free time hunting the wild hogs that descended on the ranches, farms and wineries of California like a plague of porcine locusts every year. Their rooting created significant erosion damage to the hillsides every year. They voraciously ate any crop they came across.

As a result, pig-hunting season in California was a year-round proposition. Even with no restrictions on hunting them, the wild boar were winning.

Their population continued to increase. Their range continued to expand. Trophy-size hogs were everywhere.

So were men with rifles.

It was the perfect opportunity to stage a hunting “accident.” The enemy, whoever they were, could have a hundred snipers in the area armed with high-powered rifles with high-powered optics; all sneaking through the woods wearing camouflage and no one in local law enforcement would bat an eye.

Bolan knew Manning would love to be hunting the big game but they had a job to do. He swung his sights onto the cabin. It was made of logs but what it was in reality was a three-story log mansion with guest wings, servants’ quarters, a wine cellar and a fully equipped and domed astronomy observatory.

The net of the tennis court had been taken down and Philip Eckhart’s helicopter was parked on it.

Eckhart was a billionaire, and three very real attempts had recently been made on his life. Eckhart had decided to continue on with his anything but routine life, including his hunting trip. He had, however, stepped up security. Bolan knew that everything within a hundred-yard radius of the lodge was under video surveillance. The lodge grounds had a web of infrared laser motion detectors. Eight armed men wearing maroon Eckhart Endeavors windbreakers patrolled the grounds in two-man teams. Each team patrolled with a large guard dog. Another half-dozen security men were inside the house, checking security feeds and carrying pistols in concealment holsters.

Bolan frowned as Eckhart and a guest walked past a huge, open, brightly lit, second-story window. The man he watched was unremarkable to look at. He might be a billionaire but he was still wearing the same scuffed and stained khaki pants and flannel shirt from the dawn and dusk hunts of the day. Several of his companions had bagged pigs that were being roasted on huge spits in the backyard. Eckhart had held off on his own shots. It seemed he was waiting for a prize-winner.

A look of approval ghosted across Bolan’s face as Eckhart’s personal bodyguard shadowed the two men a few discreet steps behind. The man wasn’t very tall but his shoulders were broad, he stood ramrod-straight and projected like he was a six footer. He wore khaki shorts and a company polo shirt that had been tailored to fit his physique. Unlike the rest of the security detail he made no effort to hide the Browning 9 mm automatic or the thirteen-inch khukri dagger he wore on his belt.

Eckhart had hired himself a Gurkha from Gurkha Security Limited.

The man missed nothing. His brows bunched with obvious concern as his charge walked past the window. It was clear the bodyguard had stopped trying to advise Eckhart on how to live to see another day. Instead the man had made himself Eckhart’s shadow. The bodyguard gazed out the window in passing and Bolan could almost feel the former British soldier searching for him in the dark.

“Interesting,” Manning remarked.

Phillip Eckhart was an interesting guy. He had grown up unremarkably in the San Luis Obispo area. Hunting and fishing had taken up most of his time to the detriment of most other things in his life. Two years of junior college had barely squeaked him into the California Polytechnical Institute, but once there he had excelled, graduating magna cum laude in computer science with a minor in archaeology, a subject that had remained a passion in his life. Eckhart had never invented anything. What he had excelled at was looking at something and figuring out a way to make it better. He’d started working in Silicon Valley for established companies. Eventually he started his own company, went public, sold it and was a millionaire at the age of thirty-five. He had taken the profits and started another company, and then another and another. Then he started buying other, well-established businesses and made them work better. Before long he was a billionaire. His umbrella company was Eckhart Endeavors. Through that he looked around, found things that interested him and engaged in fascinating endeavors that made stupendous profits. Wall Street constantly held its breath waiting to see what he would do next.

Now someone wanted him dead.

Bolan didn’t find that surprising. One generally didn’t become a billionaire without making enemies. Often, vast numbers of them. The one strange caveat to the situation was that Phillip Eckhart was the only known billionaire on the planet who also happened to be a genuinely nice guy.

The President of the United States was concerned by the threats to Eckhart’s life. Eckhart was a friend and an important campaign contributor. Nonetheless Eckhart had refused the security services of the FBI, the CIA and the Secret Service, saying he could take care of himself. But the President was troubled. So was the CIA. Was Eckhart just being his eccentric self or was he involved in something he wanted to hide? The president had consulted Hal Brognola, Director of the Justice Department’s Special Operations Group, who’d called in Bolan for a covert operation.

Phillip Eckhart’s brain was a national treasure, and the country could not afford to lose him. Furthermore, if one of the wealthiest men on earth was really up to something ugly, the United States government needed to know about it. The men from Stony Man Farm had fanned out. Aaron “The Bear” Kurtzman and his team had begun their computer wizardry, looking into Eckhart’s comings and goings while Bolan and Manning sat in a sweaty sniper-hide eating protein bars while the smell of roasted boar wafted up the hillside to torment them.

Eckhart’s hired security wasn’t bad, but if Bolan and Manning could sneak up within rifle range so could someone else, and the Executioner knew he could take Eckhart anytime he wanted to.

Manning spoke very quietly. A tiny LED was flashing on their security suite. “Motion, near Suspect One.”

Bolan and Manning had spent the seventy-two hours before Eckhart arrived at the cabin mapping the valley and finding the best spots for an enemy to set up to kill Eckhart. They’d established a descending order of best possible points from which to launch an attack on the lodge. Bolan and Manning had rigged the sites with security. Suspect One was the prime spot in this neck of the woods for hunting billionaires. It gave a commanding view of the house and the grounds and was within five hundred yards, putting it well within range of a good rifle or a handheld rocket launcher. There was good cover and concealment and it offered several escape routes, one of which led to a glade that was wide enough to support a helicopter landing.

“Confirm motion,” Bolan said.

The pigs had been setting off the motion sensors regularly.

“Motion confirmed on two sources.” Manning looked up with a grim smile. “Sensors are picking up significant metal readings.”

Unless they had eaten a hunter and his gear the one thing the wild boars of California didn’t do was carry rifles, and something had tripped the motion sensors at Suspect One and was carrying a significant source of metal. Bolan took out his phone and pressed a preset number.

The Executioner watched as Eckhart stopped by a window and pulled out his phone. The billionaire stared at his phone for long moments while it rang. When he was off hunting, fishing, sailing or mountain climbing his personal secretary took all his calls. This was his personal phone. Only the people closest to him had access to this number. But, with the help of Kurtzman, Mack Bolan did, too. He watched Eckhart continue to stare at his phone. The screen was giving Eckhart no caller ID. The Executioner figured it was 50/50 whether he responded.

Eckhart suddenly flipped open the phone and answered brightly. “Eckhart!”

Bolan spoke quietly. “Mr. Eckhart, listen carefully. I’d like you to step away from the window.”

Eckhart’s face blanked for the barest instant and then he disappeared behind the three-foot beams of his log cabin mansion. “Who is this? What do you want?”

“I’m extra security for you. An attempt is about to made on your life. I would like you to very quietly pull your security teams, your staff and your guests into the house. I believe the enemy will have snipers and possible support weapons. Out in the open your men will be cut to pieces,” the Executioner said.

“I have a sharpshooter in the observatory up top. How about he counter-snipes?”

Clearly Eckhart was thinking ahead but not far enough. “Pull him. The dome is a death trap. Your shooter will get one shot and then he’ll be killed. You should have deployed him in the hills,” Bolan said.

“I never thought of that, I—”

There was no time to debate tactics. “I gather you have a basement shelter that is fire and earthquake proof?”

“Yeah…”

“Get everyone in it,” Bolan said.

“I’m not big on holing up. I’d rather keep my options flexible if I’m under attack,” Eckhart said.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Mr. Eckhart, but I would suggest you at least pull into the interior of the house, and if you see shots on the hillside try to hold your fire. I’m going to try to take the gunmen out, now, and you might hit me or a buddy of mine.”

“What if they get past you?”

“The only way they’ll get past us is if we’re dead. At that point you’re free to do whatever you like.”

Eckhart was silent for a moment. “Sounds fair to me. Good luck!” he said.

“Thanks, and you.” Bolan put his communication headset in place. “Stay on the line.”

“You got it. Keep me advised,” Eckhart replied.

Manning was smiling. “For a billionaire, he sounds like an okay Joe,” he said.

Bolan muted his mike. “Yeah, let’s keep the boy breathing.”

Bolan and Manning pulled night-vision goggles down over their eyes and began their approach on Suspect One. The little redoubt had a pair of fallen trees that formed a natural berm, and between the two trunks there was ample room to aim a rifle from cover. At fifty yards Bolan and Manning each dropped to one knee. Two rifle barrels could be seen between the trunks.

The barrels had hoop-shaped muzzle breaks as big around as beer cans.

“Those are anti-materiel rifles,” Manning whispered. “And bigger than fifty caliber.”

“Two heavy weapons, that’ll mean at least two spotters if not four. Make it a half dozen with a seventh as commander,” Bolan said.

“These guys are serious,” Manning said.

Bolan’s blood went cold as the light-amplifying lenses of his goggles showed him a pair of lasers drawing green lines down toward the house. He keyed his headset. “Eckhart?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” the billionaire responded.

“Where are you?”

“Just watching the football game with friends while the pig finishes. Security is pulling back and my guests and I are all in the interior of the house like you said.”

“Have everyone hit the floor! Now!” Bolan urged.

The hillside lit up like doomsday. Six-foot gouts of fire blasted from the muzzles of the two massive weapons. They fired and fired again, methodically. Splinters fountained off the side of the lodge as huge projectiles tore through the treated timber like tissue. Bolan could hear men and women screaming through his headset. The two massive weapons on the hillside jackhammered holes in the side of Eckhart’s hunting retreat. Eckhart shouted in Bolan’s earpiece. “We’re under attack!”

“On it!” Bolan raced along the hillside with Manning silently taking his six. “I’m going to flank! Pin ’em down on my signal!” he told Manning.

Bolan split off and took the deer path that looped up behind the snipers’ position. The antitank rifles kept punching holes through the lodge. Bolan came to the pocket on the hillside and found killers intent on business. Two men were crouched behind the gigantic rifles aiming through the firing slit formed by the fallen trunks. The optics attached to the weapons were impressive and appeared to include small targeting computers. Two more men were assisting with loading magazines into the smoking weapons. One more man, who was obviously in command, was watching the besieged lodge through binoculars.

The assassins should have had someone watching the back door.

“Now!” Bolan said.

Manning’s automatic rifle roared to life and the gunners and loaders froze in shock as bullets ripped across the tree trunks. The commander sensed something behind him and started to turn.

Bolan spoke quietly. “Freeze.”

The man dropped his binoculars on their strap and went for the Uzi slung by his side.

The Beretta 93-R machine pistol in Bolan’s left hand walked a three-round burst up the commanding assassin’s chest. The .50 caliber Desert Eagle in Bolan’s right swung as the two loaders went for their submachine guns. They lost the tops of their heads for their trouble. The anti-materiel rifles were far too big to be wielded in close combat. The gunners dropped their weapons and went for their pistols. The Beretta trip-hammered one man’s head apart and Bolan took two strides forward to point the smoking machine pistol between the surviving assassin’s eyes. “Last chance. Take the pistol out with two fingers, left hand, and toss it away,” he said.

The man stared down the muzzle of the Beretta and complied.

“How many more?” the Executioner asked.

The man gave the unwavering machine pistol a leery look but kept his mouth shut. Bolan chopped the Desert Eagle down and clubbed the man unconscious. “Manning, I have four hostiles down, one prisoner.”

“I see no more activity on the hill from my end. You want me to come ahead?”

“No, go down and let Eckhart know the situation seems to be contained. He’ll probably be pretty grateful. Try to pump him for anything useful before local law enforcement show up and start asking questions or his lawyers show up and start advising him. I’ll secure the prisoner. Then I’m going down the trail to see if I can locate their extraction point.

“Copy that,” Manning said.

2

San Luis Obispo, California

The Executioner connected his laptop computer to his secure satellite link and then leaned back on the hotel bed. He’d left Gary Manning with Eckhart for the last twenty-four hours to see if he could pick up any intel around the lodge while Kurtzman worked the angles from his end. Bolan had found an SUV on the back side of the hill. It had been rented in town under a false name. The prisoner wasn’t talking so local law enforcement had handed him over to the FBI.

Bolan typed in a few codes and Aaron Kurtzman popped up on his screen in real time. “So what can you tell me about our buddy Eckhart?” Bolan asked.

Kurtzman grinned on the screen. “Well, Gary says his spit-roasted wild boar is fantastic. He’s hot-tubbing with supermodels, drinking single malt Scotch and Eckhart calls him ‘good buddy.’”

Bolan shook his head.

“He also says that Eckhart really is a hell of a guy. Real regular Joe, for a billionaire,” Kurtzman added.

“That’s what everyone seems to be saying,” Bolan replied.

“I’ve been researching our man, and it seems to be true. For example, a few years back he invested in African diamond mines. He started dating a French actress who gave him the lecture about African blood diamonds and he completely divested himself of the business on his end and took a loss.”

Bolan had to admit that was unusual for a captain of industry. “What else? There’s got to be some dirt on the man.”

“Well…he likes to date models.”

“Big deal,” Bolan said. “Anything else?”

“Well…he’s always had a love affair with archaeology.”

“Well, now we’ve got him.” Bolan folded his arms across his chest decisively.

Kurtzman sighed. “I know. Hear me out. Amateur archaeology is his passion. The guy hands out grants like party favors to universities with red-hot archaeology departments. And if there’s one real boondoggle in his life, one place where he makes bad business choices, it’s archaeology. The man has thrown away some serious coin on far-flung digs and treasure hunts that went nowhere. Of course he can afford it, but we’re talking about a genuine addiction for digging around in the sandbox.”

Bolan considered the information. “Bring up his guest list at the hunting lodge again.”

Kurtzman clicked keys and the names and photos popped onto Bolan’s screen. He scanned them and pointed at a name. “Dr. Marcus Klein. Doctor of what?”

Kurtzman searched. “Professor of classical archaeology, UC Berkeley.”

“Not your average great white hunter,” Bolan said.

“No.” Kurtzman’s craggy brow furrowed. “He’s a card-carrying member of PETA, actually.”

“Something very intriguing must have made him ignore his scruples and attend a billionaire’s pig hunt in rural California.”

“He wants a grant? A lot of academics do a lot of things they’re ashamed of to receive funding.”

Bolan tapped another picture on his screen. “Who’s the blonde?” She had long straight hair, arched eyebrows, full lips and big white teeth. She looked curvaceous and was wearing a pink argyle sweater and pin-striped pants. Stylish square eyeglasses completed her look. She had the fulsome, librarian seductress look going to the hilt. “She’s not Eckhart’s usual Euro-lanky ice-queen girlfriend.”

Kurtzman grinned. He was a man who appreciated a woman with curves. “That is Nancy Rhynman. Double major in archaeology and linguistics. Specializing in ancient Greek studies on the one hand and primate body language on the other.”

“Primate body language?”

“She wrote a thesis matching ape gestures, expressions and body language to humans. She speaks on the lecture circuit and gives corporate seminars on reading body language to help businesses get ahead.”

“That’s got to pay more than the ancient Greeks.” Bolan’s eyes narrowed. “What is Professor Klein’s specialty?”

Kurtzman smiled as he saw where this was going. “The ancient Greeks.”

“Eckhart probably wouldn’t care about reading body language except as cocktail conversation. This Nancy gal is attractive but he already has a supermodel girlfriend. She’s there for her archaeological expertise. So is Klein. I need you to find out what they’re all up to,” Bolan said.

The computer chimed. The Executioner clicked on Accept and a video inset of Gary Manning appeared. “Hello, boys!”

“What have you got on your end?’ Bolan asked.

“Turns out the guys with the big guns were doing more than firing for effect. The weapons were Hungarian Gepard rifles. The M3 version, chambered for 14.5 mm Russian rounds. We’re talking a thousand-grain bullet traveling at over three thousand feet per second. I surveyed the damage. You could put your fist through some of the holes they punched through that house.”

Bolan had seen the weapons up close and didn’t doubt it.

“And here’s the real interesting thing,” Manning continued. “They put a round through Eckhart’s bedroom that hit his bed, his pillow actually, right on the side of the bed where he sleeps. In his private study his computer was smashed apart and the trajectory would have cut him in half if he’d been online. They put a round where he sits in his favorite chair in the TV room, one through the dining room that would have killed anyone sitting at the head of the table and another one would have taken him on the can in the master bedroom. These guys had intimate knowledge of Eckhart’s place and had his usual stationary spots plotted in their firing computers. I’ve never seen an assassination attempt like this, but I’m telling you, it was slick.”