Battle Cry

Dark Waters

A group of homegrown Scottish terrorists guns down an American businessman in the name of their cause—free Scotland from England, whatever the cost. But something more sinister lurks below the surface, and Mack Bolan is called in to stop them before they strike again.

There is only one way to bring this group to its knees—destroy whoever is funding them. But before justice can be served, Bolan will have to penetrate the benefactor’s heavily guarded fortress overlooking Loch Ness.

Whatever the risks, this band of extremists and their puppet master must fall, and the Executioner is determined to be the last man standing.

A shotgun blast shattered the banister

The Executioner ducked out of sight as more bullets peppered the walls and ceiling overhead.

Barging through the first door on his right, he found himself inside what looked like a guest room. Directly opposite the doorway where he stood, a sliding door opened onto a narrow balcony that faced the yard and street beyond. It was a drop of twenty feet, and then a run of twenty yards across the lawn. He would be wide open to the shooters in the house—and any who were quick enough to follow him.

One step at a time.

Bolan kicked the bedroom door shut, locked it and crossed to the window. He opened it and waited for the angry voices to resume from the hallway. If they went straight, he had a chance to make the drop unnoticed. But if they searched room by room…

The doorknob jiggled, and Bolan stitched a double 3-round burst across the paneling, and was rewarded with a squeal of pain. A second later, he was on the balcony, one leg across the rail.

As small-arms fire ripped through the room’s door and eastern wall, Bolan took his leap of faith.

Battle Cry

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In the mind and nature of a man a secret is an ugly thing, like a hidden physical defect.

—Isak Dinesen 1885–1962 Last Tales

Some secrets are best left buried, with the men who keep them.

—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

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Glasgow, Scotland: 9:18 a.m.

Galen Lockhart checked his Rolex Oyster Perpetual Milgauss watch and discovered that, against all odds, he was ahead of schedule. His hangover was fading slowly, and he knew it was a mere illusion that he still heard echoes of the music that had hammered him the previous night for hours, at the Barrowlands. After his steaming shower, there was no way he could still smell What’s-her-name’s perfume.

What was her name? Something vaguely exotic, he recalled. Finela or Grizela? Maybe Annabella?

Screw it.

She’d been gone when Lockhart had received his jarring wake-up call from the Hilton Glasgow’s concierge. His wallet was still intact, and that was all that mattered. If he hurt a little here and there, it only meant they’d had a damn good time.

“A bonny day, this is,” his guide declared.

Lockhart had never seen Craig Stewart when he wasn’t smiling. Could it be some kind of surgical enhancement? Maybe he’d had a nip-tuck in the cheek muscles to lift the corners of his mouth in perpetuity?

Or was he just another jolly Scot?

Whatever, he was right about the day. Bright sunshine and a clear blue sky over the city, as their limo rolled along Cathedral Street toward Stirling Road. From there, it would be out of Glasgow proper, into Springburn, where the ground breaking was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock.

The factory would mark SenDane’s first move outside the States. Lockhart had bucked the tide of outsourcing as long as possible, but now the time had come to ride the wave, before he wound up drowning in red ink. And if the move got him some good publicity, well, what was wrong with that?

“Your parents must be proud,” Stewart said through his smile.

His ancestors had gambled on a one-way ticket to America during the twenties, started out in New York City but wound up in Philadelphia and prospered there. Each generation built on what the last had done, took full advantage of technology as it evolved and learned to play the games that made success, if not a lead-pipe cinch, at least a reasonable expectation.

“They’ll be here for the grand opening,” Lockhart replied. “Next June, if we don’t run afoul of any snags.”

“You’ll be snag-free,” Stewart assured him. “Everything’s been taken care of, top to bottom.”

Meaning politicians, unions and whatever else might slow construction if the wheels weren’t greased with cash. Once they were up and running, Lockhart would recoup his bribes in spades, but at the moment, every penny counted.

“The Lord Provost is coming?” Lockhart asked.

“Aye,” Steward said. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world. And we’ve got five out of the seven MPs coming in.”

“Sounds good.”

“A bonny day,” Steward repeated. “Everybody happy as a pig in shite.”

“WE’RE IN THE SHITE if anything goes wrong,” Patrick Whishart said, huddled in the backseat of a blue Ford Focus stolen from the long-term parking lot at Glasgow International Airport, its license plates switched with a junker from a Paisley wrecking yard.

“So, don’t let anything go wrong, then,” Bobby Tennant answered from the shotgun seat, not bothering to turn and face Whishart. “We do the job and get the hell away. All right?”

“He’s got no cover, then?” Hugh Ferguson inquired from the backseat.

“To watch him dig a hole?” Tennant was scornful. “Just the copper you see sittin’ over there.”

One uniform sat inside his panda car, watching reporters square away their cameras and microphones. The VIPs hadn’t arrived yet, but they would be turning up within the next few minutes if they meant to start the show on time.

And if they didn’t, Tennant’s team would wait.

Reaching between his knees into a paper shopping bag, Tennant withdrew a Sterling L2A3 submachine gun and a curved double-column magazine holding thirty-four rounds of 9 mm Parabellum hollowpoint rounds. Keeping a cold eye on the policeman in his car, Tennant snapped the magazine into the SMG’s receiver and racked a round into the chamber.

Behind him, he heard his two other men priming their weapons, an Uzi for Ferguson and an Armalite AR-18 assault rifle for Whishart. Their driver, Duncan Nilsen, had an Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol in his lap, but he was staying with the Focus when they made their move, to have it ready when the hit went down.

“Remember,” Tennant said, “go for the targets first and leave the copper be unless he makes a run at you. We know he’ll use the radio. Don’t sweat it. Hit the Yank and anyone who’s fawning over him, then get back to the car. Hear me?”

They heard him, and they’d heard it all before, at least a dozen times during their planning sessions for the strike. It was a relatively simple job, but still important to the cause. Outsiders had to know they couldn’t make a fortune on the backs of honest Scots, even if they had ancient roots in local soil.

“Here comes a limo,” Nilsen warned them.

Tennant turned in his seat to eye the limousine, a black Rolls-Royce Ghost. The license plate on its front bumper showed the Scottish government’s royal coat of arms. Dark tinted windows hid its passengers from view, but Tennant recognized the car and knew who was inside.

“Take him or leave him,” he advised the others. “Tag the Yank for sure, then drop his lackeys if it doesn’t slow you down.”

“Another limo,” Nilsen said. “And two more coming up behind it.”

“Council members, maybe some MPs,” Tennant suggested. “Careful with them, when it starts. We have some friends there, and it wouldn’t do to mess them up.”

“They take their chances, kissing Lockhart’s arse,” said Ferguson.

“Just follow orders,” Tennant cautioned him. “Don’t feck this up by thinkin’ for yourself.”

“ALL READY, from the looks of it,” Craig Stewart said.

The politicians had arrived ahead of schedule, jockeying for face time with the television cameras, grabbing their sound bytes before all eyes and lenses focused on the American whose symbolic homecoming meant jobs and a boost for the city’s flagging economy. Every politician who turned out for the ground breaking would be claiming credit for it, getting in another bid for votes.

“You brought the shovel, right?” Lockhart asked. “Christ, I never thought of it till now.”

“It’s in the trunk,” Stewart assured him. “Sterling silver, bright and shiny new.”

The spade was silver-plated, and had cost a pretty guinea, even so. Once jabbed into the dirt, it would be mounted on a placard and retired. A souvenir for someone, probably the Lord Provost, to join the case of eighteen-year-old single-malt Glenlivet whisky he’d received as Lockhart’s token of appreciation for a quarter of an hour on the dais.

Moments later, they were out and moving toward the stage, with Stewart carrying the shovel. Lockhart had his short speech memorized, the usual spiel about returning to his roots and honoring his heritage. He thought to himself that if anyone was dumb enough to think of SenDane as a philanthropic charity, more power to them.

On the dais, shaking hands, Lockhart could feel his hangover trying to reassert itself, but he suppressed it, plastered on a smile to match Stewart’s and stepped up to the microphone.

The turnout wasn’t large and didn’t have to be. The cameras were what counted, catching every second of the show.

“My friends and fellow Scots—”

A ripple in the small crowd caught his eye, distracting Lockhart as he saw three men advancing, rudely shoving past the others who’d arrived before them, pressing toward the stage. He didn’t recognize the guns at first, until the nearest one was pointed at his face.

“Look out!” somebody shouted from below. Too late.

Lockhart began to turn, raising the spade as if it could protect him, hearing screams and curses from the crowd. Then, all he heard was thunder.

All he felt was pain.

Chapter 1

Glasgow: 10:05 a.m.

Mack Bolan’s flight from New York City landed more or less on time. The jumbo jet had lifted off from JFK eleven minutes late yet somehow beat the captain’s own best estimate for crossing the Atlantic. They’d traveled more than thirty-two hundred miles overnight, across five time zones, and Bolan had done it in coach.

It was good to stretch his legs again, to work the kinks out of his neck and lower back.

He took his time passing along the jetway, following the signs to Immigration and Passport Control. Upon arrival at their destination, Bolan’s fellow travelers formed lines, according to their nationality. The fast lanes were for British subjects, residents of nations in the European Economic Area, and the Swiss. All others joined the lines requiring more detailed interrogation by authorities.

Bolan was ready with his landing card and passport, this one in the name of Matt Cooper from Los Angeles. Mr. Cooper was on holiday with nothing to declare.

The immigration officer who beckoned Bolan forward was a woman, pale and red-haired, with just the barest hint of freckles on her nose. He would’ve had to guess about her figure, since she was wearing body armor underneath her uniform, and her gunbelt had numerous black, bulky pouches.

She checked his face against the passport’s photo, inquired as to the purpose of his visit even though it was already indicated on his landing card, and asked for an address where he’d be staying while in Scotland.

Serving up the truth for once, Bolan replied, “No address. I’ll be traveling and stopping where the spirit moves me, hoping there’s a room available.”

She frowned, then said, “Good luck with that” and slammed a stamp into his passport.

“Next!”

Glasgow International Airport, located eight miles southwest of the city’s center, served more than seven million travelers per year. Most international arrivals passed through the main terminal, where two al Qaeda wannabes crashed a flaming Jeep Cherokee into the main pedestrian entrance on June 30, 2007. The Jeep failed to explode, but one of the men set himself afire and subsequently died in agony. His sidekick was arrested near the scene and pulled a thirty-two-year sentence for attempted murder.

So, security was tighter in the terminal these days. En route to claim his check-through suitcase, Bolan passed by teams of uniformed police in jaunty caps, with H&K MP-5 submachine guns slung across their chests. None of them paid particular attention to him, and he felt no sense of apprehension as he followed more signs to the baggage carousels on a lower level.

It wasn’t cops who posed the main threat to his life from this point on.

His black, generic suitcase took another thirteen minutes to appear, but no one checked his luggage tag as Bolan headed for the kiosk where a hired car should be waiting for him. There, another woman with red hair—younger and more cheerful than the officer who’d stamped his passport—welcomed Bolan, found his reservation and received his California driver’s license with a Platinum Visa, both once again in the name of Matt Cooper.

Bolan replied to the obligatory questions, lying where he needed to and staying vague about the rest. He took the lady up on her insurance offer—Bolan’s rentals sometimes took a beating on the road—and opted for the prepaid “discount” refill of his gas tank when, or if, he managed to return the car.

There was, he thought, no reason why the rental company should eat the cost if something happened to their car while in his possession. The Visa card was solid, false name notwithstanding, and his debts were always paid on time, in full.

The ride selected for him was a gray Toyota Camry with a five-speed manual transmission, front-wheel drive, with a two-liter inline-four engine. Bolan put his suitcase in the spacious trunk and remembered that the driver’s seat was on the right, the stick shift on his left.

As he left the car rental parking lot, with traffic rushing toward him on his right, Bolan quickly got the feel of it, his muscle-memory kicking in from other trips abroad, and he was on his way.

So far, so good. But Bolan couldn’t leap into his mission as he was.

For starters, he was naked—or, at least, he felt that way, without a single weapon close at hand. Airline security made packing weapons on commercial flights unfeasible, and Bolan couldn’t very well comply with standing rules for shipping lethal hardware in the baggage hold. Most of the gear that he relied on was legally off-limits to civilians in the States and the United Kingdom, so he’d traveled light, unarmed except for hands, feet and vast experience in taking life, up close and personal.

But he needed guns, perhaps explosives—and some information, too.

Thankfully, Bolan knew exactly where to find them in the heart of Glasgow, day or night.

IAN WATT WAS a respected businessman. Although he was a product of Gorbals—Glasgow’s toughest slum, located on the south bank of the River Clyde—he’d risen far above his humble roots, like others he could name.

Gorbals owed its name to the Lowland Scots word for lepers, locally housed at Saint Ninian’s Hospital in the fourteenth century and granted begging rights on nearby streets. Alumni of the district included some of Glasgow’s most notorious characters, good and bad.

He had grown up on the streets, in essence, with the likes of Tam McGraw and Frank McPhee, both gone to their rewards now with a host of others who had battled through the ice cream wars and other skirmishes for turf across the years. Watt chose a slightly different path, fencing hot items through a pawn shop that had prospered and expanded into two, then four, then seven citywide. Most of his merchandise was perfectly legitimate.

Most, but not all.

Old friends and new acquaintances still had selected items that required a broker, and they needed other items to defend themselves from competition or the police. Firearms regulation in the British Isles had gone from bad to worse after the Dunblane massacre of 1996, in which sixteen children were killed in kindergarten class by a shooter who then killed himself. But life went on, and hardmen needed shooters all the same.

In Glasgow, many of them bought their wares from Ian Watt.

He had to watch out for the undercover filth, of course, but honestly, how hard was that? A few bob handed over, here and there, bought Watt a warning when the dogs were prowling in his neighborhood, and risks were minimized by dealing mainly with a trusted clientele.

Mainly.

Needless to say, there were exceptions to the rule, but all of them came recommended from another customer who’d dealt with Watt in other situations, with no comebacks. Like the fellow from America he was expecting for a nooner on this very day, referred to Watt by someone who knew someone else, and so it went.

And who was Watt, a thriving businessman, to turn away a foreign visitor in need?

Watt didn’t care what use was ultimately made of any items he procured and sold on to the street. None of the weapons could be traced to him, either by registration numbers or the fancy stuff you saw on TV crime dramas. Watt never touched a piece or cartridge with his bare hands, damn sure never left his DNA on any item from his arsenal, and wouldn’t take a fall for anything unless the coppers somehow found his basement arsenal.

Which wasn’t very bloody likely, he thought.

At half-past eleven on the stroke, Watt put the Closed sign on his door and sent his pretty helper, Flora, off to lunch. She always took her time about it, likely making out with her boyfriend from the pizzeria down the street, but what of it? He’d hired her as eye candy, primarily, and got his money’s worth when punters were distracted by her cleavage while he talked them down on loans, or jacked them up on retail prices. Best of all, she never questioned being sent out on some pointless errand or released ahead of closing time, as long as she was paid up for the day.

A perfect front, he thought, in all respects.

He smiled, amused as always by his own wry wit.

Watt didn’t know exactly what his new customer had in mind, as far as shooters were concerned, but his inventory was extensive. Something for everyone, down in the basement—and twenty years to think about it at HMP Barlinnie, if he was caught with that kind of hardware on hand.

Unless, of course, he struck a deal to shift the burden somewhere else.

A dicey proposition, that was, if you thought about his customers. All men of honor, in their own eyes, meaning that they punished traitors harshly but might sell out their mothers if there was any profit in it.

Most of Glasgow’s current so-called gangsters couldn’t hold a candle to the old breed. They were tough enough, all right, but you could never tell when one of them might crack under interrogation. Once they got to thinking about prison and the things they’d have to do or do without inside, a lot of them would spill and put their best mates on remand.

Watt was a different sort, and anyone who mattered knew it, going in. It was a point of honor, and he knew what could become of those who snitched, even when they were certain that they’d gotten away with it. Watt, himself, hoped to die at ninety-something in a trollop’s arms, rather than screaming on a rack somewhere.

When he had seen the back of Flora, Watt threw down a double shot of Royal Brackla whisky and felt the heat spread through his vitals, relaxing him from the inside out. First-timers always put his nerves on edge a little, but the whisky mellowed him like nothing else.

All ready to do this, he thought, and watched the big hand creep around toward twelve.

THE SHOP ON Dalhousie Street, in Garnethill, was closed when Bolan parked a half-block south of it, but he had been forewarned of that. A knock on the glass door produced a slim man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back from a craggy face that had absorbed its share of blows, and then some. His suit was Savile Row, though Bolan didn’t know enough about the London fashion scene to peg a tailor.

The proprietor beamed a smile at Bolan through plate glass, then unlocked and opened the door. “Mr. Cooper, you would be?” he inquired.

Bolan nodded and said, “Mr. Watt?”

“In the flesh, sir. Come in, won’t you please?”

Bolan scanned the merchandise while Watt secured the door behind him, checking out the street. He stocked a bit of everything, it seemed, from jewelry and musical instruments to antique silverware and china. Clearly, there was money to be made from someone else’s disappointment.

“Just in from America, you’d be,” Watt said as he returned, no longer asking questions. “And looking for some tools of quality.”

“Assuming that the price is right,” Bolan replied.

“I take it that you understand our situation here. We haven’t got a constitutional amendment giving us the right to carry guns, and all. The scrutiny is fierce.”

“And yet.”

“And yet. Of course. Just so you realize that heat increases costs for merchants and their customers.”

“The money’s not a problem,” Bolan said.

“In that case,” Watt replied, “please follow me. The merchandise you’re looking for is kept downstairs.”

He trailed Watt through a minioffice to a storage space in back, then down a flight of stairs concealed behind a steel door labeled Private—No Admittance. Watt turned on a bank of overhead fluorescent lights as they started their descent, bleaching the basement arsenal’s beige paint and striking glints from well-oiled pieces of his secret stock.