Enemy Arsenal

WHOLESALE SLAUGHTER

A massive black-market weapons bazaar, where someone with enough money could outfit a small nation, becomes Stony Man’s highest-priority target. And Mack Bolan is determined to be on this year’s guest list. Setting out undercover into the African desert, he’s about to close in when U.S. aircraft and armored vehicles—operated by men in American uniform—annihilate the crowd.

The truth soon becomes clear. A growing syndicate struck the site in disguise to behead the smaller crime organizations and absorb what was left. While all eyes are on the U.S. to explain what happened, Bolan goes on the hunt for the real power behind the bloodbath. And the trail leads to the South China Sea, where a mysterious billionaire has launched an assault on the world’s major ports. Hijacked cargo ships are heading for international cities. Unless Bolan can stop them...

Bolan tossed the device into the backseat

“Damn, that thing is handy,” James said. “Stony Man ought to license it to the cops to stop speeders.”

“Yeah,” Bolan said, “and it also fried the vatos’ cells so that they can’t call for help. Who knew EMP could be so helpful?”

“Uh, how are we gonna catch all these guys?”

“We’ll have to round them up the old-fashioned way....” Bolan trailed off as he felt a warm circle of metal press into the back of his neck hard, pushing his head forward. He froze.

“All right, putas. Move just an inch and I’ll splatter your brains all over the car.”

Enemy Arsenal

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Weapons are an important factor in war, but not the decisive one; it is man and not materials that counts.

—Mao Tse-Tung

A weapon is not evil in and of itself—it is merely a tool, one that can be used by evil men against the innocent, or by good men to protect the innocent. When I take up arms against evil, it is with the sole notion to protect the innocent and punish the guilty.

—Mack Bolan

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.

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

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

A glass of chilled champagne dangling between his fingers, James Barrett leaned on the luxury yacht’s polished teakwood railing and watched the golden-red sun sink into the deep blue waters of the glass-smooth South China Sea.

Sure is a far cry from Nebraska, he thought. Indeed, he’d never imagined seeing this much water in his life, not counting a family vacation to the Great Lakes when he was ten years old. Barrett glanced back at the receding Philippine Islands, where he’d just spent three intoxicating days. He was living the life he’d always dreamed of, but every moment, every second of pleasure he tried to enjoy was colored by the faint, niggling feeling that he didn’t deserve any of it, that he was, quite simply—a fraud.

But he knew that was just his father talking again. Barrett had worked harder than anyone he knew to achieve what he had, beginning with working two jobs to scrape up the money to attend the state university; suffering the ribbing of his redneck coworkers for studying during his lunch break at the slaughterhouse; going home after a full shift just four hours before class started and standing in the shower for thirty minutes, trying to wash the blood and dead meat stink out of his skin and hair; fighting to stay awake in his classes, knowing he had to work another twelve-hour shift that night, and somehow bull through a full class load of homework and papers, as well, week after week, month after month.

It had taken him five years, but at the end, he had graduated not only with a diploma, but also with a partial scholarship to Yale, thanks to an endowment from one of Lincoln’s founding families. The scholarship had the unusual stipulation that the winner had to attend a school outside the state, and Barrett wondered if whoever had set it up had hated the endless, flat plains as much as he did.

Compared to getting through college, law school was easier, at least on his body. His mind was taxed to the limit, but Barrett relished the purely intellectual challenge after years of backbreaking labor. He excelled there, interning at the Yale Law Journal and matching wits and legal expertise with some of the finest minds in the nation.

“A peso for your thoughts.”

As always, the sound of that sultry voice behind him made a frisson of delight course through his body. He turned to see a goddess-made-flesh walking toward him, dressed in a bikini that barely covered her slender body. Her bronze skin glowed in the fading rays of the tropical sun, under a long, silky mane of honey-blond hair that cascaded down her back and shoulders. Over the tiny swimsuit she almost didn’t have on was a sheer, silky white hip-length peignoir that fluttered in the gentle ocean breeze, revealing tantalizing glimpses of long leg and the delightful swell of her breasts. Barrett shifted his stance, letting his loose cargo shorts hide the sudden tightness in his groin.

“Just had to come out and watch the sunset again.”

She smiled, revealing even white teeth. “I figured as much. Dad and my brothers can get to be a bit much after a few drinks.”

“Hey, it wasn’t them. I like your father, really. He accepts me for who I am, just like his daughter.”

“Mmm, I like the sound of that.” She stepped close to him, the scent of jasmine and coconut body lotion almost overpowering him. Slipping her slim arms around his neck, she leaned up and kissed him, her lush lips tasting like a combination of sweet guava, rum and mint. Her tongue teased his, drawing it out, then darting back and forth. James wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, his love-fogged brain barely remembering not to crush her to him, the way he wanted to do every time she came near.

He’d first met Rachel Kirkall during his junior year, at a frat party he had wrangled an invitation to for no good reason he could think of at the time. Later, he had wondered more than once if it was fate. Spying a blond-haired vision across the raucous living room awash in loud music, body shots and pot, he had homed in on her as if in a trance. Upon arrival, however, he had interrupted a drunken fraternity brother’s clumsy advances by “accidentally” spilling his beer on the guy, then ducking his clumsy swing and burying a fist that had seen its share of fights into the blue-blood’s stomach, leaving him retching on the floor.

He’d expected the blond beauty to be shocked, but instead she’d said, “Thanks, now let’s get out of here.” Grabbing his hand, she had pulled him into the rainy night. They had found a nearby Starbucks, and spent the next four hours deep in conversation.

He’d learned she was a local from Connecticut, and was attending architect school, but he hadn’t found out that she was part of the Kirkall family until he had idly searched her name after their second date. After a brief, terrifying few minutes scrolling through the family’s public business holdings, including a sizable stake in a major league baseball team, he’d wondered if he’d ever see her again, or if he was just a passing fancy she was amusing herself with for a few weeks or months before moving on to someone more in her stratum. But that thought was immediately replaced by an even scarier one—that he might already be falling in love with her.

The two opposing thoughts had consumed him until their next date, but he’d managed to contain his fear and desire while stretching his scant budget to the limit to take her out to dinner at Ibiza.

Toward the end of their meal, some of her friends had stopped at their table, and although they were perfectly polite, James sensed the way they were looking at him. Rachel had ignored the pointed looks and narrowed brows, and it was only afterward, when they were sharing a glass of ten-year-old port she’d insisted on buying, that he’d worked up the nerve to ask her the question he knew had been on her girlfriends’ minds.

“Why am I with you?” She had smiled when she heard it, and James felt himself standing at the edge of an unfamiliar precipice, teetering, either about to fall over or step back, depending on her next words.

“First, you know who I am, and you haven’t asked about my father, except once, when you wanted to know what he did for a living. Second, this is our third date, and you still haven’t tried to get into my pants yet—”

That hadn’t been for a lack of desire on James’s part, but he hadn’t dared to even attempt a move like that, not wanting to destroy the romantic illusion he’d been enjoying so far.

“But most importantly, when I look at you, I see a man who hasn’t sold his soul to anyone yet. That’s why I’m with you.”

Soundlessly, James toppled over the edge, falling head-over-heels in love with her in that very moment.

They had been inseparable for the remainder of the school year, with James even winning over a few of her friends, and surviving a nerve-racking holiday weekend at her parents’ palatial mansion upstate, where he’d only gotten lost twice. Her three older brothers had been protective of her and skeptical of him, but James hadn’t given them a single reason to doubt his sincerity toward Rachel. And he’d spoken the truth about her father—he did like the man, whom, he hoped, saw a kindred spirit in James. The elder Kirkall had also built himself up from practically nothing, striking it rich in shrewd foreign investments, then bringing his hundreds of millions back home to reinvest in America’s infrastructure. Barrett had made it clear he wasn’t expecting a handout, that he was just happy to be with Rachel, and fully expected both of them to make their own way, whatever that might be and wherever it might take them. He didn’t know if it had been his directness or his honesty that had made the difference, but when Rachel’s family had invited him along on their Southeast Asia cruise at the end of the term, he’d jumped at it.

But at that precise moment, thoughts of her father, his last year at Yale or anything else for that matter were the furthest thing from his mind. Keeping one hand around her waist, he let his other one creep up toward her breast, cupping it gently, his touch making her tremble and mold her lithe form even closer to him. While they enjoyed each other’s lips again, her hands roamed, as well, slipping underneath his shirt to caress his broad chest, making James even more thankful he’d made the effort to stay in shape over the school year. He managed to set the champagne flute on the railing and curved his arm back around her, moving his fingers down to her finely sculpted rear and squeezing gently.

Rachel broke their kiss with a soft gasp. “Hey now, what do you think my family would say if they came out here and saw you taking liberties like that?”

James didn’t relinquish his hold on her for a moment. “They’d see a man who is head-over-heels in love with you—which just might get my ass kicked, depending on who saw who first.”

“Fortunately for you, the masters of the universe are still backslapping each other belowdecks, leaving us with a few more minutes....” Rachel tilted her head up again, sending an invitation James didn’t hesitate to accept. He leaned down again, his lips about to hungrily devour hers when something on the ocean caught his eye.

“Mmm, what was that?” Despite the glorious distraction right in front of him, Barrett raised his head to try to get a better view of what he’d spotted.

“With me warm and willing in your arms, you pick now to find a dolphin?” Rachel mock-teased him, turning in his arms to look off the starboard bow.

“It wasn’t a dolphin. It looked more like a bunch of driftwood, but with something on top. Hang on a sec.”

James disentangled himself from Rachel’s embrace and walked to the other railing, grabbing a handheld battery-powered searchlight as he approached the rail. Flicking on the million-candlepower light, he swept the incandescent beam back and forth across the water.

“There!” Rachel grabbed his hand and redirected the light. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Jesus, someone’s out there!” James played the beam over the small mass, which looked like a crude raft cobbled together out of scrapwood and two oil barrels lashed together. What might have been a small pile of rags on top was actually a child’s body, lying motionless on the small platform’s surface. The makeshift float drifted toward them in the calm water, about thirty yards ahead off the right side.

“Holy shit! Call the bridge, have them turn to starboard. I’ll see if I can snag it.” Rachel grabbed an intercom handset from the wall while Barrett snatched a long boat hook from the wall rack and ran to the back of the vessel. Feeling the deck shift slightly underneath him, he realized the captain had turned toward the raft.

As he passed by a door, it opened and a crew member stepped out, followed by Stuart, one of Rachel’s brothers. “Can I be of assistance, sir?”

“Yeah, there’s a kid on a raft to starboard. I’m gonna try to snag him as we pass.” Barrett led the two men to the rear of the boat, where he stepped onto the flat deck used for launching smaller boats or personal watercrafts.

“Would you rather that I take care of this, sir?” The mate was as insistent as he could be under the circumstances, even gently reaching out for the pole with one hand.

James shook his head. “No, I’ve got it, but I’d appreciate some backup just in case it’s heavier than it looks.”

“Careful. You don’t want to take a dip out here, James. Sharks, you know.” Nattily attired in khaki shorts and a pressed tropical shirt, Stuart lounged against the wall, drink in hand, content to let the other two men take the lead.

“Just make sure I don’t go in with it.”

“I’ve got you, sir.” The mate was polite, with a subtle British accent. Barrett tried not to think too much about how he was being supported, with the man’s arm around his waist, but his eyes focused on the raft, now just a few yards away. He reached out with the pole and caught a board, only to have it tear free when he tried to draw the rickety vessel closer, making it rock back and forth.

“Careful, James!” Rachel, her robe wrapped around herself, watched from the walkway.

“I’m trying, dear. Almost...got him...” Barrett stretched out again and wedged his hook into a gap between two boards, hearing the scrape of metal on metal. He pulled the pole in, watching the platform move closer. “Get ready to grab him.”

“Right.” The raft bumped the corner of the luxury yacht, and the steward reached down and plucked the huddled boy, who remained curled in a ball, on board. “I’ve got him.”

“Rachel, get some food and water. He’s probably dehydrated.” James pushed the raft away, sending the rickety pile of wood and barrels spinning into the night.

“I’m on it.” She disappeared into the ship.

“We’ll probably need a blanket, as well—” Barrett’s words were interrupted by the kid, who suddenly unfolded himself and wriggled out of the crew member’s arms. What was even more surprising was the ugly black pistol he pointed at the man, the weapon large in his small hands.

“Chuò! Chuò!”

“What the hell?” Stuart, for all his supposed indolence, took a step forward, only to have the muzzle of the pistol swivel to cover him. He raised his hands, not alarmed enough yet to put his drink down.

“What’s going on?” Barrett didn’t take his eyes off the gun, estimating the distance between him and the boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. The boat hook was still in his hand, but he was careful not to draw attention to it.

“He told us to stop. He might be a decoy for pirates.”

“Damn, we need to disarm him and warn the others.” Stuart shifted his weight, drawing the boy’s flat stare. At that, Barrett lashed out with the hook, trying to knock the gun aside, or even better, right out of the boy’s hand.

Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, the boy ducked under Barrett’s swipe and swung the gun over toward him, which spit flame as he pulled the trigger. Barrett felt a sudden stab of pain in his abdomen, and looked down to see an expanding spot of dark wetness on his shirt.

“Little bastard...shot me...” Barrett leaned against the railing as the steward leaped forward to grab the pistol, wrenching it out of the boy’s grasp. Distracted, he didn’t notice the shadowy form that came around the corner of the yacht and slipped up behind him.

Barrett tried to shout a warning, but Stuart and the crew member were talking at the same time, calling for the physician. Their shouts for help mixed with the foreign curses and cries of the wriggling boy. The steward’s voice was cut off with a gasp as the shadow came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his throat, doing something that made the man arch his back, his expression a grimacing mask of agony. The other man, a short, wiry Asian dressed in shapeless black pants and shirt, stepped back and let his victim fall to the formerly spotless deck, now dappled with Barrett’s blood. A large knife, its blade dark and gleaming wet, was in his hand.

“Shit!” Stuart hurled his drink into the man’s face, the glass shattering against his cheek and making him drop his blade and clutch his face, screaming in pain. “Come on, buddy!” He grabbed Barrett and hoisted him up, slinging his limp arm over his shoulder.

“Rachel...don’t let them get Rachel...” James found it suddenly hard to think. His free hand, clamped over his wound, was soaked in blood, and he knew if he didn’t get help soon, he would die.

“Let’s just get inside— Son of a bitch!” Stuart’s frantic tone made Barrett look up to see three more of the invaders, machetes and pistols in hand, running toward them from the ship’s bow. Shouts and screams could now be heard from elsewhere on the yacht, along with the thuds of running feet.

“Come on!” The Kirkall brother wrestled with the door, shoving it open and pushing Barrett through. Stepping over him, Stuart pushed the door closed just as a body thumped into it from outside.

“James, help me—I can’t hold this against all of them—”

Barrett, however, couldn’t even help himself, his vision fading to gray as the blood loss started to take its toll on him. He heard a scream from somewhere in the room, then felt footsteps beside him as the door slammed open, Stuart falling over him with a grunt.

The sound of rapid, shouted Chinese filled the room as the hijackers beat Stuart to the floor. Barrett felt himself supported by warm, familiar hands, and looked up to see Rachel’s tear-stained face above him.

“What happened, baby?” She took his hand away from his stomach, stifling a gasp at the growing puddle of blood leaking out of him. “Oh, my God—James, we have to get hel—”

Before she could do anything, her head was jerked backward, and she was dragged away from him by her hair, screaming and grabbing her assailant’s hands. Barrett was left to flop onto the floor, helpless.

“Leave...her alone...” he gasped, trying to muster the strength to crawl after her attacker, but unable to make his arms and legs work. The last sounds he heard were the thuds of fists on flesh and the piercing screams of his girlfriend before darkness overtook him.

CHAPTER ONE

“These chulos better show up tonight. Gettin’ tired of feeling my rear end grow wider sitting all night waitin’ on ’em.”

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, turned from watching the dilapidated warehouse near the docks of the Los Angeles Harbor to shoot a wry look at his partner. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon enough, Cal.” His grin disappeared as he returned to watching the night. “If they want what we’re selling bad enough, they’ll be here.”

The two men were dressed in expensive, casual clothes: silk shirts, linen pants and tasseled Italian loafers. Bolan checked his appearance in the visor-mounted mirror, smoothing his gelled black hair one last time. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him out of a tanned face.

They sat in a silver Cadillac Escalade, its rear shocks compressed from the heavy load in the rear, peering through tinted windows at their eventual destination. Bolan suppressed his smile as he glanced at Calvin James, a member of Phoenix Force, and his partner for this op. “You ready?”

The lanky African-American snorted. “I was born ready. Just make the call. And remember, these fuckers don’t mess around. They sniff pork, we’re both dead men.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing we don’t mess around, either.” Bolan hit a speed-dial button on his cell phone and lifted it to his ear. “We’re here... Same ride as always... Hell no, we weren’t followed. Yeah, yeah.” He turned to James. “Flash your lights.”

James flicked the headlight switch on and off once, then again while taking one last look around to make sure no one was taking undue interest in what was about to go down.

Next to the warehouse, several large, rusty panel trucks rested in a parking lot, all encircled by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The gate to the lot was closed and secured with a rusty chain. Bolan thought he saw a glint of shiny metal on the chain, but before he could take a second look, the warehouse’s garage door rumbled up, revealing a cavernous, dark interior. A single light flashed on inside, casting a dim glow into the cloudy night.

“Let’s do it.” James put the SUV in gear and rolled forward.

Bolan fixed his partner with a searching gaze. “You followed my advice, right?”

“Yeah, although I still think we’re courting suicide to go in not packing.”

“We’re arms dealers, not users—there’s no reason for us to carry. Besides, the SUV’s armored, so just get to it in case of trouble, remember?”

“Yeah, it’s surviving the short trip in one piece that concerns me.”

“I suggest leaving your door open a crack. That split second to work the handle can make the difference between life and death.”

Now James glanced over at him, meeting Bolan’s calm, steady gaze. “Damn it, I never can tell if you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

The gleaming SUV pulled up in front of a cluster of eight Latinos, all dressed in variations of the L.A. gangland look: baggy, low-riding jeans, white wife-beater

T-shirts, or flannels with the top button fastened, even in the city’s ninety-five-degree heat, and immaculate ball caps or bandanas tied low, almost covering their eyes. The light from the overhead lamp illuminated only the surrounding area, making Bolan’s threat sense tingle a bit; they had no way of knowing who might be in the darkness, waiting to attack when the time was right.