Blood Play (Don Pendleton's Mack Bolan) Read online

  “Incoming!” Kissinger shouted.

  Grimaldi eased off the accelerator, falling back a few yards. Behind him Bolan powered down his window and leaned out, rattling off a diversionary burst. The ploy worked. The Stony Man warriors heard the faint throttle of the AK-47, but the rounds flew wide of their mark.

  Kissinger had ducked below the dash, but righted himself, clutching his pistol, his eyes fixed on the rear of the panel truck in front of them.

  “Looks like the guy’s reloading,” Grimaldi warned, putting the pedal to the metal. “Hang on. I’m going to ram them!” The Stony Man pilot was executing a last-ditch play. If they didn’t stop the truck, Franklin Colt was as good as dead.

  Other titles available in this series:

  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

  Force Lines

  Contagion Option

  Hellfire Code

  War Drums

  Ripple Effect

  Devil’s Playground

  The Killing Rule

  Patriot Play

  Appointment in Baghdad

  Havana Five

  The Judas Project

  Plains of Fire

  Colony of Evil

  Hard Passage

  Interception

  Cold War Reprise

  Mission: Apocalypse

  Altered State

  Killing Game

  Diplomacy Directive

  Betrayed

  Sabotage

  Conflict Zone

  Don Pendleton’s

  Mack Bolan®

  Blood Play

  When a friend is in trouble, don’t annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it.

  —Edgar Watson Howe

  1853–1937

  What’s appropriate is direct action against perpetrators who commit atrocities for their own profit. Law-abiding people have no chance against these predators. That’s where I come in.

  —Mack Bolan

  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

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Taos, New Mexico

  Walter Upshaw stared noncommitally at the elaborate architectural drawings laid out on the table of his modest two-bedroom home. It was situated atop Pueblo Peak, which afforded a panoramic view of the one-hundred-thousand-acre tribal reservation he helped administer as seven-time president of the Taos Pueblo Governing Council. One set of drawings illustrated a proposed sixty-thousand-square-foot casino with an attached four-story, four-hundred-room hotel. Another rendering transposed the designated site for the gaming facility onto a topographical map that included several circled areas set deep in the Taos Mountains. There were no markings to explain the intended use of the latter areas, but Upshaw knew they indicated long-abandoned uranium mines. Resting next to the topo map was a manila file filled with documentation as to various means by which to carry on an environmental cleanup of the sites.

  “You’ve certainly put a lot of effort into this presentation,” Upshaw finally told the two men who’d made the arduous four-mile drive up a winding mountain road to confer with the tribal leader. He’d already met Freddy McHale, a bald, barrel-chested man of roughly the same age, several times during the past few months. McHale’s colleague, a younger, rusty-haired man who’d been introduced as Pete Trammell, was noticeably shorter than his companion and had said only a few words since Upshaw had invited them into his house. McHale, on behalf of Global Holdings Corporation, ran the gambling operations at the Roaming Bison Casino, a co-venture with the Rosqui Tribal Council located an hour’s drive south of Taos on the outskirts of Santa Fe. McHale had told Upshaw that Trammell was GHC’s Ancillary Project Manager. The widowed tribal leader hadn’t bothered to ask for a translation as to what such a job might entail.

  McHale smiled amicably. “I know we’ve already hashed out most of this a few times and gone over some crude drawings,” he said, his voice tinged with what seemed to Upshaw more of an Eastern European accent than the Irish brogue his name would suggest. “But I thought maybe if you had a clearer picture of what we had in mind you’d see this as a win-win deal. We’re not only offering you a way to increase your pueblo’s per capita income by at least a hundred percent, we’re also committed to cleaning up uranium sites that, if they existed outside the reservation, would likely be declared EPA supersites due to the risk of toxic exposure.”

  “I can’t help thinking there has to be some kind of ulterior motive on your part,” Upshaw replied. “All this altruism about cleaning up the uranium sites… I’m sorry, but something about it doesn’t ring true.”

  “It’s not just altruism,” McHale explained. “As you know, we don’t just run the casino at Rosqui, we’re also in charge of the nuclear waste site there. We have a sound track record on that front, and it’d be easy enough for us to secure funding to add facilities for dealing with your uranium.”

  “It’s business,” Trammell piped in.

  “And a successful one,” McHale went on. “If you don’t be
lieve us, ask any of your colleagues at Rosqui. They get a cut of both ventures, just as you would here.”

  “You’ve presented this same argument every time we’ve met,” Upshaw said, “and when I counter with my position, I can almost see the words going in one ear and out the other.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” McHale’s voice had begun to lose its tone of cordiality. The shift was not lost on Upshaw, but he pretended not to notice.

  “Rosqui Pueblo is a bit fonder of Red Capitalism than we are here in Taos,” the tribal president went on. “Here, we’re already a bit uncomfortable with what little gambling we offer at our small casino. We have, if you’ll pardon the pun, certain reservations about expanding things any further. As for the uranium mines, they’re located far from any inhabited areas, and we’ve already conducted tests to confirm that the tailings are in no danger of leaching into the watershed. The way I see it, it’s a case of ‘let sleeping dogs lie.’”

  “Are you sure you speak for the majority of your people?” McHale asked. “Not to mention your fellow members of the tribal council?”

  Upshaw narrowed his eyes and stared hard at the businessmen.

  “I’m in charge of this pueblo,” he said coldly. “I hope I’m wrong in sensing that you’ve been trying to wheel and deal behind my back.”

  “We’ve requested all along that we be allowed to make a presentation to the entire council,” McHale countered. “You keep refusing. Why is that?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “It’s because you know they’d probably back our offer.”

  “I think you’re mistaken.”

  “There’s one way to find out.”

  “If this were a poker game, I’d call your bluff,” Upshaw said. “As it is, however, I’ll merely advise you that if I find out you’re trying to make an end run around my authority, there will be consequences.”

  “Are you threatening me?” McHale asked.

  “I’m a man of action,” Upshaw replied. “I don’t bother with threats.”

  “Neither do we,” Trammell snapped.

  McHale shot Trammell an angry glance. Chastened, the shorter man diverted his gaze and fell silent. McHale turned back to Upshaw.

  “Seats on the governing council are elected positions,” he said. “As is the council presidency.”

  “I’ve been reelected by a landslide every time I’ve run for another term,” Upshaw said. “I don’t see that changing.”

  “Times have changed, Walter, and not for the better. Your people are struggling to make ends meet like everyone else. If they see a way to better their lot, are you certain they’ll be willing to stick with the status quo?”

  “I’ll thank you not to address me by my first name, Mr. McHale,” Upshaw said. “We’re getting nowhere here and I have some other matters to attend to, so I would suggest that we call it a day.”

  McHale stared at Upshaw a moment, then sighed and began to gather up his presentation materials. Trammell grabbed a large leather portfolio propped next to the table and held it open so McHale could slip the materials inside.

  “I have computer copies of all this,” McHale told Upshaw. “I’ll send them to you and maybe once you’ve had a chance to look everything over more thoroughly—”

  “There’s no need for that,” Upshaw interrupted. “I’ve already committed to a small expansion of our existing casino with our current partners. That’s as far as I intend to see things go.”

  McHale stopped what he was doing. His neck flushed crimson and the rage in his eyes was matched by the coldness in his voice. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me,” Upshaw said evenly. “I’d prefer to stick with the people I’m already working with. Nothing personal.”

  “If you’ve already made up your mind,” McHale said, “then why did you have us come all the way out here to the middle of nowhere and make a presentation?”

  “I wanted to see your reaction,” Upshaw said calmly. “You really need to work on your poker face, Mr. McHale.”

  McHale checked himself and slowly continued putting away the drawings and files. By the time he’d finished, he’d regained his composure. He took the portfolio from Trammell and tucked it under one arm, then extended the other to Upshaw.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t do business, Mr. Upshaw, but thank you for your time.”

  Upshaw stared at McHale’s hand but refused to shake it. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sure you can find your way out.”

  McHale pulled his hand back. Trammell was already headed for the door. McHale followed him. A few minutes later they were back in McHale’s customized Hummer, heading back down the long service road linking Upshaw’s home with the existing casino, a small converted lodge visible two miles below on a plain at the foot of the mountain.

  “He knows something,” Trammell said, speaking, not in English but in his native Russian. McHale nodded, then responded in the same language.

  “We’ve had our suspicions he might.”

  “We need to consider our contingency plan, then,” Trammell said.

  McHale nodded again as he navigated a turn in the road. “We need to step up surveillance on him,” he said. “Tap his phone, hack his computer, tail him. Whatever it takes to find out who tipped him off.”

  “It has to be somebody at Rosqui.”

  “More than likely,” McHale said. “Keep an eye on his son, too. He’ll factor into this.”

  “Orson, too?”

  “Absolutely,” McHale replied. “There has to be a way we can kill two birds with one stone here.”

  “More than just two,” Trammell said ominously. “And I have a feeling we’ll be killing more than just birds.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  Mack Bolan was twenty minutes into his jog on one of the gymnasium treadmills facing a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the eastern perimeter of Stony Man Farm. Through the window he could see the bare-limbed, regimentally planted poplars surrounding the distant Annex as well as the tip of that building’s storage silo, which outsiders were led to believe contained nothing but wood chips ground up as a byproduct of the Farm’s timber-harvesting venture. In fact, the uppermost cavity of the silo contained not only a concealed array of antiaircraft ordnance but also a bevy of communications antennae and data-link transmitters servicing the cybernetic team operating out of the subterranean bunker facility located one floor down from the lumber mill. Two blacksuits stationed amid the poplars were equally discreet, busying themselves with farm chores, their firearms concealed beneath coveralls and lightweight shirts so as to not give away their primary function, which was to safeguard this, the clandestine headquarters for America’s foremost covert task force. Bolan himself was a key player for the Sensitive Operations Group, having helped found the organization years ago when his War Everlasting had expanded from forays against organized crime to tackling the global threat posed by terrorists, drug cartels and other entities hell-bent on subverting U.S. interests in pursuit of their own self-serving agendas. For the moment, the warrior who’d come to be known as the Executioner was between assignments, but there was already another mission in the offing, and within the hour Bolan expected to be en route to the West Coast to engage once more with the enemy. As always, he planned to be ready for the challenge.

  “I figured I might find you here.”

  Bolan continued to jog in place as he glanced over at the attractive, blond-haired woman approaching the treadmills. Barbara Price was SOG’s mission controller, but she and Bolan shared a bond that went far beyond their mutual commitment to the Farm’s top-secret charter. A few short hours ago, they’d been in each other’s arms back in Price’s bedroom at the farmhouse, a gentrified structure that helped the Farm present itself outwardly as just another of many upwardly mobile country estates dotting this remote sprawl of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains.

  “I thought I gave you enough exercise for on
e day, soldier,” Price teased.

  Bolan grinned faintly. “I figured I’d tire myself out a little more so I can sleep on the flight,” he replied. They both spoke quietly, barely above a whisper, mindful of several off-duty blacksuits working out with free weights on the other side of the exercise room.

  “They’re still refueling the jet,” Price responded. “I just heard from Ironman, though. They’re bogged down on logistics and don’t figure to have their ducks in a row until sometime late tomorrow. So you have the option of laying over in Albuquerque for that convention Cowboy’s attending.”

  Ironman was Carl Lyons, field leader for Able Team, SOG’s go-to commando squad for countermanding threats to the U.S. usually on American soil. The three-man team had been deployed a few days ago to Seattle, where it was now closing in on a smuggling ring purported to be running arms across the border in nearby Vancouver. The smugglers were linked to a survivalist sect on file in the Farm databases for actively abetting several purported al Qaeda sleeper cells throughout the Northwest. Able Team was concerned about spreading itself too thin in pursuit of the various leads that had turned up since its arrival, prompting Bolan’s offer to fly out and lend a hand. Intent as he was on tackling the assignment, the Executioner also saw merit in the notion of spending an extra half-day in Albuquerque with John “Cowboy” Kissinger, the Farm’s resident weaponsmith. Kissinger would be attending a three-day trade show focused on the latest advancements in weaponry and combat gear, and Bolan was intrigued by some of the breakthroughs Kissinger had told him about. Anything that would help give him and his fellow commandos an edge over the enemy, Bolan felt, was always worth a firsthand look.