Dead Reckoning. Don Pendleton
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FINAL PAYBACK
The United States consulate in Jordan is firebombed, its staff mercilessly killed. With the group responsible scattered to hideouts in war-torn hot spots around the globe, Mack Bolan has to hit these terrorists hard before they can warn one another.
Soon Bolan is turning safe houses and desert refuges into killing fields as he battles to take down the terrorists three by three. But the last of the group vanishes just as Bolan discovers their ultimate target: an international conference in Switzerland headed by the American President. The world’s leaders are caught in the crosshairs, and the Executioner has to stop the splinter group before they strike a global deathblow.
The gunner in the Mercedes van cut loose with another burst
Bolan’s assault rifle spit flame, and the chase car’s left headlight exploded. His volley was too low and too far to the right as Grimaldi swerved to avoid incoming bullets, spoiling the Executioner’s aim.
He fired another short burst, strafing the van’s narrow grille. The fusillade wouldn’t stop the Mercedes immediately, but an overheated engine could slow them in the short run.
They had reached the last paved road before the riverbank, crossing from east to west, while north-south drivers blared their horns, shook fists and shouted curses in the Audi’s wake.
Road rage. Damn right.
The van was crossing the river, pursuing them, with the biker trailing it, decelerating now that he knew where the fight was headed. Bolan hoped the guy would be smart, turn back and live to see another day...
But that wasn’t Bolan’s call. He had four men to take out, at least, before they finished him.
Dead Reckoning
Don Pendleton
Justice delayed is justice denied.
—William E. Gladstone
Justice may be late sometimes, but it’s inevitable. I don’t judge my targets. I am their executioner.
—Mack Bolan
For John Christopher Stevens and Sean Smith
Contents
Zarqa, Jordan
The mob was heating up outside. Its rhythmic chanting of the past two hours had given way to random shouts and jeers from individuals amid the larger, heaving mass of human fury. Rocks were flying, and if experience was any guide, Molotov cocktails wouldn’t be too far behind.
Mark Hamilton stood watching on a closed-circuit television, since the US consulate had no external windows. It was basically a bunker, the design dictated by security concerns, with eight-foot concrete walls around it, topped by razor wire.
That wouldn’t stop the mob, if its excited members were determined to get in.
“Still no police?”
Hamilton turned to face his aide, Arnie Connelly. “Not yet.”
“Jesus, how long does it take?”
Hamilton shrugged. They both knew members of Jordan’s national Public Security Force should have shown up by then, if they were coming. Their headquarters, another bunker,