Executioner 055 - Paradine's Gauntlet Read online

  The Executioner was ready to die

  Mack Bolan was trapped by enemy guns, alone against cutthroat competition.

  A rifle bullet chipped the pavement by his elbow.

  The Executioner looked in desperation for another angle of attack. Then he heard the welcome sound of April Rose's autorifle.

  Together, in deadly tandem, they fired at the odds. Until horror hit hard like a bullet from hell.

  And Mack Bolan watched as April Rose dropped, blood instantly staining the fabric of her jumpsuit....

  Also available from Gold Eagle Books, publishers of the Executioner series:

  Mack Bolan's

  ABLE TEAM

  #1 Tower of Terror

  #2 The Hostaged Island

  #3 Texas Showdown

  #4 Amazon Slaughter

  #5 Cairo Countdown

  Mack Bolan's

  PHOENIX FORCE

  #1 Argentine Deadline

  #2 Guerrilla Games

  #3 Atlantic Scramble

  #4 Tigers of Justice

  First edition July 1983

  First published in Australia October 1984

  ISBN 0-373-61055-6

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to

  Mike Newton for his contributions to this work.

  Copyright © 1983 by Worldwide Library.

  Philippine copyright 1983, Australian copyright 1983,

  New Zealand copyright 1983.

  Scanned by CrazyAl 2012

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 118 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, NSW. All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The Gold Eagle trademark, consisting of the words GOLD EAGLE and the portrayal of an eagle, and the Worldwide trademark, consisting of a globe and the word WORLDWIDE in which the letter "o" is represented by a depiction of a globe, are trademarks of Worldwide Library.

  Printed in Australia by

  The Dominion Press—Hedges & Bell, Victoria 3130.

  "Against naked force the only possible defense is naked force. The aggressor makes the rules for such a war; the defenders have no alternative but to match destruction with more destruction, slaughter with greater slaughter."

  —Franklin D. Roosevelt

  "By extending the limits of the possible, I have tried to advance our thinking on the rules of war. But one thing never changes—it's either doing or dying, shoot or be shot."

  —Mack Bolan

  In Memory of Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Robert Ray, assistant Military Attaché to the United States Embassy in Paris, assassinated by gunmen of the Armed Revolutionary Faction.

  1

  THE MAN CALLED HIMSELF LAVAL, and no one in the seamy world of waterfront Marseille had ever questioned that identity. Names were a matter of supreme indifference to his associates, men and women who could shed identities with the ease of changing clothes.

  Laval was a businessman of renown along the southern coast of France, whose stockin-trade was contraband: women, drugs or weapons—it mattered little to him. He was an opportunist. His customers served a purpose and Laval served them, as long as they had cash.

  Business had been especially good of late. The Basques and Red Brigades were hungry for the weapons he could furnish, and a major deal for Turkish heroin was in the making with American buyers. Laval had never seen a better seller's market. He had never looked with such assurance to the future.

  And then, last night . .

  It was astonishing, the speed with whichdisaster could materialize like a storm on the horizon, blotting out the progress of a lifetime. Without warning or explanation, Laval's house of cards had tumbled into ruins.

  The fire had been catastrophic, raging through his warehouse, devouring heroin and hashish, detonating stockpiled ammunition. Two of his agents had been consumed by the flames, but Laval's interest lay only with his merchandise, with the incinerated inventory.

  His customers would be suspicious, upset. He would be forced to reimburse them for their losses or replace the goods. Laval could deal with that; he could deal with the officials who would come with questions. He could deal with all of them. . . if only the fire had been an accident.

  That was the problem.

  It had not been an accident.

  It had been an act of war.

  Laval could easily shrug off the loss of the two employees, little more than glorified night watchmen, who had died inside the burning warehouse. But he could not accept so easily the other half dozen who had died outside, battling an enemy more lethal than the flames. He could see them in his mind: Pierre, his throat slit from ear to ear; and the others, huddled shells of flesh, bullet-torn,leaking blood in the fire's light. They were easily disposed of, but that did not eliminate the problem.

  Laval had a war on his hands, and he was losing. The worst part it was that he did not even know the enemy's identity. You cannot fight if you do not know whom to fight, he thought. The assault was unexpected, unprecedented, devastating. Under the circumstances, there was only one intelligent course of action.

  Laval was getting out.

  Without believing anyone could really touch him, he had prepared himself for such an event. Any cautious businessman would do as much, insure himself against adversity. He kept a cache of U.S. dollars, Swiss francs and German marks ready for a flight into exile. The man had escape routes prepared in all directions.

  At the moment, Laval was thinking of Algiers. He had connections there, and later, when the problems in Marseille had been resolved, he would return to pick up where he had left off. There would always be another time, but first he required a sanctuary.

  Laval was certain that his monetary cache would be secure. No one knew about his safe-house, or about the sliding panel that concealed the vault within a walk-in closet.

  The morning sky was breaking into dawn when he reached the safe house. Laval was confident that no one saw him enter.

  He was dead wrong.

  Laval had been followed from the water-front and traced to his lair by an enemy as grim as Death itself. The enemy, a soldier of the night, was waiting across the street, watching from the shadows as Laval emerged from the safe house carrying a heavy suitcase. And that was all the soldier needed to see.

  Mack Bolan had travelled 4,000 miles and killed eight men to get that view. He knew Laval on sight, although the face and name were strange to him forty-eight hours earlier. He recognized the enemy, and he knew what must be done.

  Laval was on the shipping end of a narcotics pipeline that could flood America with heroin, enriching certain Eastern underworld chieftains in the process. Laval's nationality and the fortune he invested in police protection placed him well beyond the reach of law-enforcement agents from the States, but he was not beyond the reach of true justice. He was not protected from the action of The Executioner.

  Laval had taken chances in his time, building a life for himself on the broken bodies and broken dreams of others. He was a cannibal, in debt far above his head to a universe that must be paid, and his note was coming due. The savage's account was being closed.

  Laval hesitated on the steps, looking left and right, one hand buried in the pocket of h
is trench coat, the other weighted by the suitcase. A dozen strides would take him to the waiting Porsche and he would be away, running free and easy toward the airport and escape. An even dozen strides, and he would be safe.

  Bolan slid the Beretta 93-R out of leather, testing its weight in his palm. A specially designed silencer would sacrifice something in muzzle velocity, but at a distance under twenty yards, neither marksman nor target would detect the difference.

  Bolan took up his position at the curb.

  Across the street, Laval was coming down the steps when he spotted Bolan. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes—for the situation rather than the man—and he reacted with the speed of one who has learned survival in the streets.

  The Frenchman was gaining speed, almost reaching the Porsche as his right hand flashed out of his pocket clutching a pistol. Bolan recognized the Walther's flat report, buffeted back and forth between the sleeping houses, and he heard the whine of the bullet as itsliced air beside him, only inches off the mark. Laval was sacrificing accuracy in his haste.

  Bolan tracked him with the 93-R, leading just enough to put the first round on target. He caressed the trigger and his weapon coughed in dignified response, a pencil line of flame lancing at the darkness. A single spent cartridge rattled on the pavement at his feet and rolled away.

  The 9mm parabellum mangler took Laval in the heart, drilling flesh and bone, finding the vital pump then flattening against a shoulder blade. Its impact spun Laval. He died before his crashing corpse struck the fender of the Porsche.

  Released from lifeless fingers, the suitcase sailed high before dropping, impacting on the sports car's shiny hood. The latches broke and the case sprang open like a giant clam, its contents freed. Bolan watched impassively as bundles of notes scattered across the street.

  The universal debt was paid in full.

  And Bolan's job was over. Another brush-fire skirmish in his endless war had ended with the savages suffering defeat and death. Weary of the hit-and-run, the monotony of kill or be killed, the warrior turned his thoughts toward home.

  A brisk walk brought him to his waitingrental car, and he put the street of death behind him.

  Fifteen minutes and almost as many winding miles of narrow city streets brought him to a preselected curbside telephone. He left the sedan, moving quickly toward the lighted cubicle, scanning sparse traffic and deserted sidewalks with cautious eyes.

  Bolan dropped a coin and dialled the special cut-out number, waiting as a complicated relay system patched him through to a clandestine office at the U.S. embassy in Paris. A young male voice answered on the third ring, phone lines humming softly as the scrambler automatically engaged.

  "Yes."

  It was neither question nor greeting.

  "Phoenix, J.," he told the bland, impassive voice. "Code Omega, SM One. I'm coming in."

  Hesitation at the other end.

  "One moment, sir."

  Bolan waited, uneasiness growing inside him, feeding on itself. A long, silent moment slipped away before a second, more mature voice came on the line.

  "Sorry for the holdup, Phoenix. We've, uh, got a bit of a complication here."

  Tension prickled at Bolan's scalp; knuckles whitened as he gripped the telephone receiver.

  "Explain."

  The desk jockey cleared his throat self-consciously before he answered.

  "We have a telex out of D.C., Colonel. The message reads: 'Wonderland to Stony Man One. Rendezvous seaside at preassigned coordinates. Stand by for further contact soonest.Shall I repeat?"

  "Negative. Received and understood." Bolan disengaged, replacing the receiver without another word.

  Yeah, he understood the message; he had prepared the code. In case of an emergency, he would remain afield and await instructions out of Washington.

  Bolan knew the emergency was unrelated to his current mission. Laval was dead, the guy's heroin reduced to ash, the pipeline broken. Any rank-and-file survivors of the network would have to take their chances with the local law.

  The job was finished in Marseille. It would be something else that required him to remain at large and prevented him from going home. He thought of the Blue Ridge Mountain country, and of Stony Man Farm, where he spent most of the brief moments of time between assignments.

  Home.

  Bolan shrugged it off. His real home wason the firing line and in the trenches. Any other haven was illusory, a short bivouac between engagements with the enemy. Home was with the heart, and Mack Bolan's heart was dedicated to his endless war.

  2

  SARAH SHEPHERD, a tall, striking brunette, always opted for a window seat when flying, but today a layer of cloud obscured the Italian countryside below. They were still ninety minutes from touchdown, and she was tired, anxious to feel solid ground beneath her feet.

  Sarah turned from the window, stifling a yawn. At thirty-two, she was probably the most important woman in the U.S. diplomatic service. Certainly, she had come further in the game than any other woman her age.

  She was making it.

  Underlying her jet lag and fatigue, Sarah felt an undeniable elation as she saw her long months of planning on the verge of paying off. From now on, it would be up to her superior, and she hoped he could nudge the last crucial pieces of the puzzle into place.

  It had taken Sarah eight months of labor, working in conjunction with her Egyptian and Israeli counterparts, to make the meeting a reality. Sarah's superior would take thecredit for it all, but she expected that. Still, she meant to get maximum mileage out of the conference.

  It was not a formal summit conference, with premiers and presidents obliged to pose for photographs and answer questions from the media with vague generalities; it was a working summit, conducted by the men and women who get things done without the trappings of a carnival.

  Sarah was one of four aides traveling with the U.S. Undersecretary of State from a preliminary meeting in North Africa. The other diplomats, Egyptian and Israeli, were supported by similar contingents—all presumably intent on bringing peace and order to the long-term chaos that had followed the Sadat assassination and the Israeli invasion of Lebanon. If they succeeded, they could change the bloody course of Middle Eastern history. If they failed . . .

  Any interference with the conference could prove disastrous. An international alliance was in charge of security around the meeting site in Switzerland.

  The CIA and Secret Service were cooperating on security precautions for the flight, and everyone was aware that American prestige was on the line.

  Sarah frowned, reflecting that professionally she was also on the line. Her superiors would be quick to cut their losses if the meeting fell through, and the ax would be falling close to home.

  Movement in the center aisle distracted Sarah. She turned in time to see the chief of inflight security as he passed by. Tall, blond and muscular, he moved with fluid grace, scanning the rows of seats in search of enemies. Grim-faced, eyes concealed behind the mirrored lenses of his aviator glasses, the man conveyed an aura of quiet menace.

  Sarah watched him as he paused, conferring with one of his men beside the forward galley module. She wished all of them would make an effort to appear more unobtrusive and less sinister; they were steeped in the standard CIA mentality.

  And yet Sarah felt the pervasive paranoia could be justified. The enemy was everywhere, and Switzerland's neutrality could not ensure a certain sanctuary for the peace-makers. There was always a need for guns and gunmen.

  The thought depressed her, and Sarah put it out of her mind. Reclining in her seat, she closed her eyes and let the tension slip away. There was time to catch an hour's sleep before they landed. The soft vibration of the 747 carried her away.

  THE MAN WITH THE BLOND HAIR turned away from his subordinate and continued toward the flight deck.

  The men were ready, anxious to begin, and he did not want to keep them waiting. He shared their feeling of anticipation. This was his project, his
obsession. Nothing could be allowed to stand in their way at the eleventh hour.

  It had cost a small fortune to put his soldiers and himself aboard the 747. He had had to grease a hundred palms for information that would place the force within striking range.

  Then the elimination of the first-string security team had been rapid. The bodies would be discovered soon—some of them might already be found, but it did not matter. There was no way to turn the flight around and abort the mission. They had passed the point of no return.

  He reached the curving staircase and took the carpeted stairs two at a time, reaching the upper lounge where another of his men was standing watch. He acknowledged the sentry with a nod as he moved toward the cockpit door.

  He slid a hand inside his jacket, feeling for the holstered Browning Hi-Power automatic, and a muscle twitched in his jaw as the newscar tissue underneath his arm pulled tight. The near-fatal bullet wound was fully healed, but the tenderness remained, a reminder of his brush with death—and of his great purpose.

  The pain gave him focus.

  The external pain and the icy rage inside him would both be eased when he achieved the revenge he sought against his enemies.

  One enemy in particular.

  He slipped through the cockpit door and pulled it shut behind him, sliding the automatic from its cross-draw holster. The Browning was cocked and locked; a flick of the safety lever with his thumb left the weapon primed to fire.

  He had chosen special ammunition for his mission—the Browning held fourteen of the Blitz-Action-Trauma (BAT) rounds favored by the FBI and Secret Service. The 83-grain hollowpoints came with plastic nose plugs to ensure proper feed; the vented plug was blown away on firing, and would fall out of the screaming bullet's path.

  The navigator and the first officer turned to face him, smiling in recognition. The captain, intent upon his instruments, did not see the pistol as it slid up and out to shoulder level. The blond man held the weapon steady, his eyes scanning behind the mirrored lenses.