Ballistic Force

“Maybe it’s not money they’re after,” Tokaido suggested

“Maybe they’re angling for an exchange. Maybe they want to barter my cousin for the members of the nuclear team they can’t get their hands on. What’s the latest on that?”

“Well, so far, assassins have killed one of the defectors and nabbed another,” Kurtzman said. “We stopped them, though, in D.C. and Chicago, and Mack’s on his way to Vegas in case they try to make a move on the guy there. That leaves Shinn, who’s dropped under the radar.”

Moments later Colonel Michaels burst into the comm room. “Your cousin just contacted his business partners in Seoul,” he informed Tokaido. “His family’s being held in North Korea along with three other friends. The North is asking for a ransom.”

One of the world’s hot spots just got hotter.

Other titles available in this series:

Takedown

Death’s Head

Hellground

Inferno

Ambush

Blood Strike

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

Mack Bolan®

Don Pendleton

Ambition,

The soldier’s virtue.

—William Shakespeare,

Antony and

Cleopatra, III, i

Violence and injury enclose in their net all that do such things, and generally return upon him who began.

—Lucretius,

99–55 B.C.

All too often innocents suffer because of the grand ambition of people in lowly positions of power. The way I see it, my job is to even the score, to restore balance and mete out justice.

—Mack Bolan

Much thanks to Feroze Mohammed for continued patience, support and understanding

CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER ONE

Koreatown, Los Angeles, California

The two men huddled in the littered backstreet alley. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” John Kissinger asked Mack Bolan, a.k.a. the Executioner.

Bolan smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “A little late to be asking that, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but still…” Kissinger didn’t finish his sentence.

Bolan was years removed from the time when his actions were motivated primarily by a hunger for vengeance, but Kissinger had asked for help in avenging the torture execution of a long-time DEA field agent he’d worked with before he’d been brought into the Stony Man fold. Given the number of times Kissinger had covered his back in the heat of battle, Bolan wasn’t about to turn down his friend’s request.

“Let’s do it,” Bolan told his colleague.

The two men stood in an alley located at the periphery of L.A.’s Koreatown, home for more transplanted natives of that long-divided Asian peninsula than any other locale on the planet. Most of the signs and billboards in the neighborhood—as well as the majority of the omnipresent graffiti scrawls—were in Korean, and the few early morning pedestrians Bolan and Kissinger had driven past while approaching their staging position had been Korean, as well.

The population was continuing to grow and so it was no surprise that this rundown neighborhood of warehouses and loft buildings was slowly being converted into residential housing. Work crews were already out in full force across the alley, gutting the one-time shipping headquarters for a long-defunct furniture manufacturer so that it could be turned into an apartment complex. Bolan and Kissinger welcomed the noise and clouds of dust. They were being backed up by three DEA agents, but there were an estimated twelve Korean gang members holed up in the building they were about to raid: any diversion would help level the playing field once the action began.

The building in question, located around the corner from where the two men were readying their weapons, was a four-story cinder block with faded paint, boarded windows and a condemnation notice posted next to the main entrance. For years the absentee landlord had ignored the city’s demands to make repairs following the ’94 earthquake and any day the structure would come under the wrecking ball. In the meantime, according to DEA intel, the Korean gang—self-christened the Asian Killboys—had taken up residence and made the site the waystation for their drug-dealing. It was there that DEA agent Rick Starr had been taken after a botched stakeout the week before. The feeling was that he’d refused to cooperate while being interrogated, because when his body had been discovered three miles away in a vacant lot next to a strip mall on Western Avenue, he’d been covered with cigarette burns and was missing his tongue as well as three fingers. Kissinger had learned of the torture while attending Starr’s funeral and even before the agent’s body had been laid to rest he’d vowed to strike back against his friend’s tormentors. Now, as he glanced at his watch and confirmed that the raid was about to begin, Kissinger steeled himself and murmured under his breath, “This one’s for you, buddy.”

At 7:35 p.m., right on schedule, a garbage truck rumbled past the renovation site and headed toward the condemned building. Both Kissinger and Bolan knew that a DEA agent was behind the wheel and that another officer was hiding in the rear hold. Bolan leaned forward and peered around the corner, glancing at the rooftop of the building directly adjacent to their target. There, the third agent soon appeared. He rose from a crouch once he reached the roof’s edge and took a few tentative swings before tossing a grappling hook across the twenty-foot gap separating the two structures. His aim was true and when he pulled the line taut, the hook snagged on the other roof’s outer ledge and held firm. Shifting hands, the agent grabbed a short-stocked rifle loaded with tear gas rounds and took aim at one of the few top-floor windows still paned with plate glass.

“Showtime,” Bolan muttered.

In unison, the Executioner and Kissinger charged from the alley and sprinted toward the condemned building. Bolan was armed with a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. Kissinger’s M-16 carbine had a flash-bang grenade loaded in its submounted M-203 launcher. As Stony Man’s resident weaponsmith, Kissinger had further tinkered with the rifle, shortening the barrel by three inches and the stock by an inch and half, making it more maneuverable in close quarters without sacrificing performance or accuracy.

The Stony Man operatives were halfway to their target when the garbage truck’s hydraulic arms groaned to life, lifting its mawlike scoop out of the hold. As the scoop swept up toward one of the boarded windows on the second floor, the agent hiding inside rose into view. He had a MP-5 subgun slung over his left shoulder, leaving his hands free to use a crowbar on the slab of plywood. Once he’d started to loosen the plank, his colleague on the adjacent rooftop fired a tear gas round into the top floor. By then, the driver of the garbage truck had gotten out of the vehicle and was circling to the rear entrance of the target building, cradling his own MP-5 close to his chest.

When planning the raid, Bolan and Kissinger had taken dibs on the front entrance. As they expected, they found that the windowless, reinforced steel door was locked.

“I got it,” Kissinger said.

Bolan stepped back and quickly donned a gas mask as Kissinger chewed away at the lock and door frame with rounds from his M-16.

Once Kissinger had on his mask, the two men lunged forward, shouldering their combined four hundred pounds of weight against the door—which gave way. They jerked it to one side and charged inside.

The ground floor of the structure had been gutted years earlier and was empty except for loose debris and a few scraps of litter left behind by transients. There was no sign of the Killboys, however. The element of surprise had paid off, Bolan figured. Hopefully they could close in on the gangsters before they spread throughout the building.

“Take the elevator,” Bolan shouted to Kissinger through his gas mask. “I’ll get the stairs.”

The men split up. Bolan rushed through the beams of sunlight slanting in through gaps in the boarded windows. Once he reached the stairwell, he could hear gunshots being exchanged on the next floor up. He took the steps two at a time and hesitated a moment on the second-story landing, then charged into the hallway.

A cloud of tear gas filled the corridor, but through the haze Bolan was able to make out a pair of Koreans who’d just emerged from one of the rooms. They were cursing and gagging but still had their wits about them and had managed to gun down the DEA agent who’d pried open the far window to climb from the garbage scoop into the hall. Wounded, the agent returned fire before slumping to the floor. His shots were off the mark, but he’d held the gangsters’ attention long enough for Bolan to get the drop on them. By the time they turned to face the Executioner, both men had been clipped by rounds from the Desert Eagle.

Bolan then cautiously stalked down the hallway, pausing to check each room he passed. The rooms were all vacant. Once he reached the fallen agent, the soldier crouched and quickly fingered the man’s wrist. He couldn’t find a pulse.

“We’ll get them,” Bolan assured the dead man. “All of them.”

Bolan was rising to his feet when he heard someone enter the far end of the corridor. He whirled and took aim but held his fire when he recognized the DEA agent who’d been driving the garbage truck.

“Keep going!” Bolan shouted, gesturing to the floors above. The other man nodded and disappeared into the far stairwell.

Bolan reloaded his .44 as he sprinted to the other landing and made his way up to the third floor. He entered the hallway just in time to see Kissinger bail out of the elevator. That same instant a grenade went off inside the shaft, shaking the walls and stinging the weaponsmith with shrapnel as its concussive force knocked him to the floor and jarred loose his gas mask.

Bolan rushed forward and slipped his comrade’s mask back in place, then helped him to his feet. Kissinger winced when he put his weight on his right foot, and his left arm was bleeding where a chunk of flying debris had struck it. He ripped open his shirt sleeve and inspected the wound.

“Just a nick,” he said. His ears were ringing from the explosion and he could barely hear his own voice.

“What about your ankle?” Bolan asked.

Kissinger took a tentative step forward and clenched his teeth. “Feels like a sprain. I’ll live.”

Glancing upward, Bolan said, “My guess is they’re all up top, but let’s do a quick sweep here just in—”

Bolan fell silent as Kissinger put a finger to the mouthpiece of his gas mask and pointed to an open doorway two doors down from the ravaged elevator. Sunlight poured out through the opening, betraying the shadow of someone moving inside the room.

Both men dropped to a crouch. Favoring his bad ankle, Kissinger inched forward and took aim at the doorway, then fired the stun charge from his carbine’s grenade launcher. By the time the grenade went off inside the room, Bolan was already on his feet and rushing the doorway.

Just inside the room, one of the Killboys screamed and grabbed at his ears as he writhed on the floor. Bolan kicked away the automatic pistol the man had dropped, then swung around and fired at another two Koreans standing ten yards away next to an upended row of Army cots. Both men went down, but not before one of them had sent a 9 mm Parabelum round whizzing past Bolan’s ear. The shots just missed Kissinger as he hobbled his way through the doorway.

When he saw the first Korean grabbing for his fallen handgun, Kissinger lunged forward and knocked the man out with the stock of his carbine, then took aim at the gangster’s head. He stopped short of pulling the trigger, however, when he detected motion off to his right. He glanced over his shoulder and saw yet another Korean crawling out a far window onto the fire escape.

Bolan spotted the man at the same time and veered away from the toppled cots toward him.

“I got him!” Bolan called.

The Killboy paused halfway out the window and drove Bolan back with a quick shot, then disappeared from view. As the Executioner gave chase, he could hear a steady exchange of gunfire up on the fourth floor. Kissinger could hear it, too. He made sure the man he’d cold-cocked was still unconscious, then limped his way back to the doorway.

“I’ll help them finish things upstairs,” he shouted to Bolan.

The soldier nodded, then crawled out the window onto the fire escape. Glancing down, he spotted the fleeing Killboy. The Korean had already reached the second floor and was getting ready to jump to the ground. Bolan leaned out over the railing and took aim at the man.

“Freeze!” he ordered.

The gangster ignored the command and leaped down to the alley.

One of the renovation workers, wearing white coveralls and an oversize work cap, had wandered over from the adjacent building, and the Korean grabbed hold of him from behind, using him as a shield and pressing the barrel of his pistol to his captive’s skull.

“Damn it,” Bolan cursed as he yanked off his gas mask. There was no way he could get a shot off without risking the worker’s life.

Bolan was debating his next move when, to his amazement, the worker suddenly lashed out with an elbow, jabbing his captor squarely in the ribs. In the same motion, the would-be captive torqued free of the Korean’s grasp and stabbed at the man’s shins with a well-placed karate kick. The Killboy’s leg buckled and he let out a pained cry as he was struck by a second blow, this one to the base of his skull. His gun clattered to the asphalt and he soon followed suit.

In the fracas the worker’s cap had fallen off, and when a spray of long brown hair tumbled out, Bolan realized for the first time that it was a woman. His shock was surpassed moments later with a flicker of recognition.

“Jayne Bahn?” Bolan whispered under his breath.

He quickly clambered the rest of the way down the fire escape, catching up with the woman as she pinned the Korean to the ground, twisting his arm behind his back in a full Nelson. When she glanced up and saw Bolan, Bahn shook her head with equal disbelief.

“Well, well,” she chided. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jayne Bahn was a veteran field agent for Inter-Trieve, a globally active bounty hunter service whose abnormally high success rate had drawn an ever-growing list of high-profile clients, both in the U.S. and abroad. Jayne had done more than her share to bolster the company’s reputation, and several times she’d crossed paths with Bolan while on assignment overseas, most recently during a mission in Indonesia involving jihad insurrection. Now, once again, fate had thrown them together. Bolan wasn’t sure why.

“What are you doing here?” Bolan asked the woman once he caught up with her.

“I think they call it surveillance,” Bahn replied.

The Korean she’d taken on slowly came to, and when he began to struggle against Bahn’s hold had, she gave the man’s arm another sharp twist. He grimaced and began cursing her in his native tongue.

“Yeah, I love you, too, sweetheart,” the woman told him.

By now the neighborhood was alive with the wailing of police sirens. Three squad cars soon screeched into view and the moment they rocked to a stop, out spilled a handful of armed officers. Some went to work cordoning off the area from the throng of curiosity seekers drawn by the bedlam; the others strode toward Bolan and Bahn, guns drawn.

Bolan flashed a badge packet identifying him as a special agent for the Justice Department. His affiliation with Stony Man Farm—not to mention the existence of the Farm itself—was a well-guarded national secret and whenever pressed to identify himself, Bolan usually relied on his Justice credentials. When the officer in charge balked at Bahn’s ID, Bolan quickly vouched for her. Squared away, they turned over their prisoner and headed back toward the Killboys’ hideout. The garbage truck’s engine was still running, but the building itself had fallen eerily silent.

“Okay, now,” Bahn said once they’d reached the broached front entrance, “you’re here because…”

“Uh-uh,” Bolan countered. “Ladies first.”

“Since when was I a lady?” Bahn wisecracked.

“The jury’s still out,” Bolan said, “but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Such flattery, how can I resist?”

Once inside, Bolan led the woman to the nearest stairwell. As they started up the steps, Bahn explained that Inter-Trieve had been hired by the family of slain DEA agent Richard Starr to track down the head of the North Korean outfit supplying the Killboys gang with heroin and methaphetamines.

“That would be Kim Jong-il,” Bolan told her, referring to the rogue nation’s enigmatic leader. “Do they really think you’re going to bring him in?”

“There’d be one hell of a bonus if I could,” Bahn said. “But I think they’d settle for somebody further down the food chain. One of their generals or else the guy who middlemans their stuff to the States.”

“Good luck,” Bolan murmured skeptically. The tear gas had begun to dissipate inside the building, but neither Bahn nor Bolan had bothered to put on a mask and their eyes stung from the lingering residue. The smell of cordite was still heavy in the air, as well, as they bypassed the first three stories, making their way to the top floor.

“At any rate,” the woman went on, “there I was, casing the place out, when some guy plays Batman and goes crashing through one of the windows here. Next thing I knew, all hell was breaking loose.”

She pointed to the top-story window the DEA agent stationed on the adjacent rooftop had crashed through using the grappling hook line. A slain Korean lay dead on the floor just inside the window, an AK-47 at his side.

Halfway down the hall, Bolan and Bahn caught up with John Kissinger and the two surviving DEA agents. They were in a large room where the Killboys stored their drug wares. The agents were looking over a folding table stacked high with street-ready bags of heroin and several cardboard boxes filled with methaphetamine capsules. Kissinger stood over two of the gang-bangers killed in the firefight. Bolan recognized one of them as the man the weaponsmith had knocked out on the third floor; apparently he’d regained consciousness and decided to die fighting instead of making a run for it. Kissinger’s right ankle was still bothering him and he’d bound his wounded arm with a strip of cloth that was fast changing color from white to red. He did a double take when he saw who Bolan had brought into the room with him.

“What do you know…Our favorite party-crasher,” Kissinger said.

“I’ve been called worse,” Bahn countered evenly. “Nice to see you again, too.”

“Let’s wrap this up,” Bolan said.

Leaving the DEA agents to inventory their drug haul, Bolan, Kissinger and Bahn ventured into the hallway and conducted a room-to-room search of the rest of the building. They encountered no further resistance and wound up back in the third-floor room the Killboys had used as a crash pad. Bolan sized up the toppled Army cots and quickly did the math.

“We’ve got two more beds than we do Koreans,” he surmised. “We better take another look around.”

“I don’t think we need to,” Bahn told him.

“Why not?” Kissinger interjected.

“I saw two guys leave right after I got here,” she explained. “They were in a late-model van. Dodge, I think.”

“Did you get a look at the plates?” Bolan asked.

“Hey, I was two buildings away. Give me a break.”

“Not much chance of them coming back here after this,” Bolan said.

“Rats like this have more than one nest,” Bahn theorized. “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

“Let’s see what else we’ve got here,” Bolan said.

He was already beginning to search the compound. There wasn’t much to go through. Besides the cots, there were a few sheets and pillows, a couple heaps of rumpled clothes and a cardboard box overflowing with fast-food wrappers and soda cans. Kissinger tipped the box over and started looking for clues and evidence amid the trash. Bolan and Bahn turned their attention to the clothes, checking pockets.