Dark Alliance

“If you do not cooperate, this will be the day you die!”

Santiago gestured to his men. They moved to stand one on either side of Bolan, gripping his arms and moving him across the cell to stand in front of a closed door on the far side. Santiago himself reached to free the bolts that held the door shut. He grasped the handle, ready to open it.

“In Miami you caused us a great deal of trouble. A number of our people died because you refused to back away. You made it clear you would refuse to stop searching for Maggie Connor. Congratulations, you have found her.”

Santiago pushed the door, then stepped aside so the Executioner could be shoved toward the opening.

It was another cell. A cold and hostile place.

Bolan was staring at Maggie Connor. Or what was left of her.

Dark Alliance

The Executioner^®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

Where there is no vision, the people perish.

—Proverbs 29:18

When leaders are motivated by personal gain their vision becomes clouded and the people they are meant to protect instead suffer. I will make those men see the error of their ways.

—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

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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

1

Colombia

Mack Bolan heard them coming for him again. The same two men had taken him from his cell for the past two days, always at dawn. He recognized the familiar scrape of boots on the worn stone slabs.

He lay on his hard cot, counting the steps until they reached the cell door. Then came the grating of rusty bolts and the dry squeal of hinges as the door was pulled open. Pale light from the exterior passage lit the windowless cell. Each time they returned him to the room and closed the door he was plunged back into darkness.

Bolan swung his legs off the cot and stood, working the stiffness from his bruised limbs. He moved around as much as possible during the empty hours, resisting the urge to simply be still. He knew if he did that his battered body would seize up. Moving was no less painful, but he persisted, always thinking ahead to the moment when he would be offered his chance. He would be ready.

The first man to enter the cell was the one named Ricco. He was a big man, Bolan’s height, but with a poor physique. Overweight and out of condition, he wore a permanent scowl on his unshaven dark face. A mass of thick, untidy black hair hung to his rounded, soft shoulders.

“Come on, yanqui,” he ordered. His English was slow and heavily accented. “Your friend is waiting for you. Today is special, too.”

He pushed the Executioner out of the cell ahead of him.

Ricco’s partner, Noriamo, stood outside the cell. Noriamo was lean, his bony face scarred with knife marks. He wore a heavy mustache that hid his mouth. As Bolan passed him Noriamo watched with small, glittering eyes. His amusement at Bolan’s nakedness was evident as he looked the captive over. As always, Noriamo was armed with a 9 mm Uzi that dangled from his skinny neck by a braided leather sling. He was constantly touching the weapon, as if to convince himself it was still there. Noriamo displayed a heightened degree of nervousness.

They walked the length of the passage, reaching another door. Noriamo slid past Bolan and pushed the door open. Bolan knew what to expect in the interrogation room—stone walls and rough concrete floor. The room was marked with dark, dried bloodstains that announced it had been used many times. Some of that blood was his own. He expected the same treatment as the day before, and the day before that. Brutal, but not life threatening. Punches and blows delivered by experts who knew how to inflict pain without killing the recipient. Beatings that went on for long periods until his numb face and body didn’t register pain any longer. When that happened they stopped and let him rest before starting again.

And then the questions. Again and again. The same questions every time….

Who are you?

Who do you work for?

What do you know about us?

Bolan had no answers for them. They wanted confirmation of their suspicions about Maggie Connor. The detail Bolan had learned in Miami would stay with him until he was able to use it against them.

His chief tormentor, the man known as Santiago, was waiting for him.

The cell door closed with a solid thud.

“I admire your resilience,” Santiago said quietly. “But as I have already said many times, you are simply wasting your life and my time. We can end the unpleasantness now. Give me what I want and it will be over very quickly. There’s no point in letting this go on. In the end, you are going to die. Why prolong your suffering? Tell me what I need to know and when I tell Manolo he will order your death.”

Bolan raised his head, matching Santiago’s stare, defying the man’s attempt at intimidation.

“I wouldn’t tell you what day it is even if I knew.”

Santiago’s face darkened. He failed to conceal his anger at the American’s open defiance in front of his men. This was how it had been since the man he knew as Matt Cooper had been brought here. If Santiago had been allowed to exhibit any compassion for him he might have because the big American had proved his will was strong enough to see him through this ordeal. But Santiago was under pressure to get the man to talk and his superiors were impatient.

“Cooper, you will give me what I want today. If you do not cooperate this will be the day you die. I want to show you something that will convince you I am serious.”

Santiago gestured to his men. Each moved to either side of Bolan, gripping his arms and pulling him across the cell to stand in front of a closed door on the far side. Santiago himself reached to free the bolts that held the door shut. He grasped the handle, ready to open it.

“In Miami you caused us a great deal of trouble. A number of our people died because you refused to back away. You made it clear you would refuse to stop searching for Maggie Connor. Congratulations, Cooper, you have found her.”

Santiago pushed the door, then stepped aside so the Executioner could be shoved toward the opening.

It was another cell. A cold and hostile place.

Bolan was staring at Maggie Connor. Or what was left of her.

Bolan saw, wanted to deny the evidence, but let it soak into his mind.

“You want to join her? That can be easily arranged if you refuse to speak to me. I will hang you on a hook next to her while you still live.”

Santiago’s soft words penetrated the white hot buzz that was rising inside Bolan. He knew he had to act within seconds.

“Bring him over here,” Santiago snapped. “If he refuses to talk we will have to persuade him to change his mind.”

Bolan felt Noriamo and Ricco grip his arms tightly as they moved him away from the open door. He offered no resistance, feigning weakness, head sagging. They turned him around. Santiago stood in the center of the cell, flexing hands that were encased in leather gloves. Slowly he reached beneath his coat and drew out a knife. It had a slim blade. Santiago stood waiting, savoring a cigar, until Bolan was dragged close enough for him to use his blade.

Turning his head slightly, Bolan saw the Uzi hanging from Noriamo’s skinny neck.

He planted both bare feet down hard, hauling himself to a dead stop. His action caught the handlers off guard and allowed him to break from their already loose grips. He half turned to his right and head butted Ricco full in the face.

The guard’s crushed and broken nose suddenly gushed blood. As he stepped away from Bolan he failed to see the American’s hard swerve to the left and behind the dazed Noriamo.

Bolan’s arms encircled the man’s lean torso and gripped the dangling Uzi. He brought the weapon up to put Santiago in his line of fire and triggered it. Brass shell casings chinked as they hit the floor.

Santiago spun, his chest erupting in a mess of blood and shredded clothing. He screamed as he tumbled to the floor. The sound stopped when a second burst ended his life. The Executioner dropped the Uzi and gripped Noriamo’s head with his powerful arms. Noriamo had no time to protest before Bolan snapped his neck. Bolan turned back to the stunned Ricco, who was still reeling from the savage blow that had smashed his nose. He grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him around. He looped his arm across Ricco’s neck and hauled him off balance. As Ricco fell back, Bolan dropped, bracing himself on one knee. He slammed Ricco across his rigid thigh. The force was enough to snap his neck and Bolan pushed him to the floor.

It had taken no more than a few intense seconds. But it was enough to end the lives of three men so that the Executioner could continue the mission that had started with Maggie Connor. He thought about what he’d learned.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“MAGGIE CONNOR HAS FED me information more than once,” Hal Brognola said. “She’s a damn fine investigative journalist. She’s also one of the most generous people I know. Okay, she wants her story but if she comes across information that might help stall an injustice she passes it along. Her tips have always pointed us in the right direction.”

“A journalist with a conscience,” Bolan said.

“I can’t knock that, Striker. She’s helped Justice break a couple of hot investigations.”

“What’s the difference this time?”

“Maggie has been working an in-depth probe into the illegal supply of weapons to one of the cartels operating in and around Valledupar.”

“That’s cowboy territory,” Bolan said.

The border territory between Colombia and Venezuela was a haven for smuggling of all kinds, from automobiles to electrical goods to drugs. Valledupar was the pivotal spot, where deals were done and the local gangs operated with impunity.

“Maggie told me she’d stumbled across details of a nasty operation. She gave me the bare bones because it was all she had at the time. Seems her Colombian subjects were having meetings with a couple of Cubans. Maggie was sure these guys were in government. She had managed to get some photographic evidence. She was being tight with what she told me. I think she was frightened, and that wasn’t like her. Maggie is tough. She doesn’t scare easily and she isn’t reckless,” the big Fed said.

“You guessed there was more to it?”

“Yes. But all she mentioned were the Colombians and the Cubans.”

“How did you leave it?”

“Maggie said she was on her way back home. She said she’d contact me after she followed up a couple of leads here.”

“Did she?”

“Once to say she was back and to wait for her to call again.”

“But she didn’t?”

Brognola shook his head. “I gave it a couple of days, then called her. Nothing. Maggie is never away from her cell phone. I had Bear run a trace on it. He finally locked on to the signal. It was weak but still active. I had Miami-Dade P.D. check it out. They located her car at the Miami airport, parked in one of the passenger lots. Maggie’s cell was in the glove box.”

Brognola handed a file to Bolan. “The cops ran more checks across the state. They came up empty. When they went to her Miami home her housekeeper said she was on an assignment. She hadn’t been in touch but that was normal. Cops said they’d keep Maggie on file but there wasn’t much more they could do.”

“She’s disappeared and you’re thinking the worst,” the Executioner said grimly.

“Striker, you and I know how these perps work. They’ll go to any lengths to protect themselves and their territory. We’ve both seen what they do to anyone who poses a threat. If Maggie crossed the line and they picked up on it she would become a target.”

“Hal, she could already be dead,” Bolan said.

“I know. But if she has some information about these people they might have snatched her to force it out of her.” Brognola hit the table with his fist.

“If that’s the case she’d be better off dead.”

“I know that,” Brognola admitted. “But she could still be alive. I can’t ask for official help because I’ve protected Maggie’s identity. It was a one-to-one arrangement. I want it to stay that way until I’m satisfied no one had a trace on her.”

“You think there’s a leak?”

Brognola was in a delicate position. He suspected there was a break in department security that might have compromised Maggie Connor’s safety. Bolan saw the look in his old friend’s eyes. Brognola was caught in the middle. Wanting to protect his source. Determined to expose any covert activity within the Justice Department. Bolan understood the big Fed’s dilemma.

“You don’t need to ask, Hal. Let me read the file. I’m on board.”

MAGGIE CONNOR’S HOME was in a quiet residential district that lay east of Miami’s historic Biscayne Boulevard.

The reporter’s home, smaller than some, was still spacious. Bolan swung his rented SUV off the road and came to a stop at the closed gates. He checked the grounds. Pristine. Empty. There was no movement. That wasn’t unusual in itself. The occupants, if they were home, could be inside the house, or in the backyard.

Bolan’s knowledge that Maggie Connor was missing gave him reason to think otherwise. He checked the gates. They weren’t locked. He pushed them open and drove through. Once inside he returned to close the gates behind him, then drove up to the house.

He stood beside the SUV, his hand sliding inside his jacket to loosen the Beretta 93-R. His presence did not seem to have alerted anyone. At the front door he tested the handle. He wasn’t surprised when the door opened, moving on smooth, balanced hinges. Bolan toed it fully open, drawing the 93-R. The entrance hall was bright from the sunlight streaming through numerous windows.

The Executioner stepped inside, his Beretta sweeping back and forth as he checked the area. He closed the door behind him, pausing to turn the lock. It was a reflex action to prevent anyone entering behind him.

Standing in the center of the hall Bolan strained to pick up any sound. Nothing.

He moved across the hall, up a couple of steps that led into a spacious living room. It was airy and filled with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Now he heard a soft, constant buzz of faint sound. As he turned to check the room the buzzing heightened. Sunlight picked up every detail in the room.

Papers and books were scattered across the floor. The drawers of a desk were empty, either lying on the rug or hanging crookedly from their runners.

Bolan saw the sprawled body, half stripped of clothing, exposed flesh showing where a knife had been used to cut and slash. Blood had run and pooled around the body. It had soaked into the carpet and partially dried. As Bolan stepped closer he picked up the smell of putrefying flesh and saw the black flies on the body. This had happened some time ago. Even from where he stood Bolan knew the dead woman was not Maggie Connor. Her file had given her height as five foot ten. The dead woman was much shorter. And she had blond hair, matted with blood. Maggie Connor had jet-black hair.

Bolan scanned the room thoroughly. The perpetrators had been looking for Maggie, or whatever they thought she knew. The woman on the floor had clearly been tortured for that information. If she had given her tormentors any information they could well be one step ahead in the search for the missing journalist. Or already have her in their hands.

As the Executioner turned away he spotted an object on the carpeted floor. He crouched to inspect it. It was the crushed remains of a thick cigar. He picked it up and sniffed the shredded leaves. He studied the rich, sweet aroma. He was certain he would recognize it again if he came across it.

He moved quickly and ran a full inspection of the house. All the other rooms had been subjected to thorough and destructive searches.

In the master bedroom he found the second and third bodies. One male, one female. Both had been tortured in the same fashion as the woman downstairs. The bodies showed signs of savage beatings and severe knife wounds. The off-white carpet beneath the bodies was caked with dried blood. More was spattered around the area. As before, the cloying smell of death hung in the warm air, and flies rose and settled as Bolan approached.

They were young and Hispanic. Bolan guessed they were probably Maggie Connor’s house staff.

Back on the landing Bolan took out his phone and called Hal Brognola on a secured line.

“Not looking good,” Bolan said. He told Brognola exactly what he had found. “They were looking for something. No way of knowing if they got it. The house staff were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Bolan heard the big Fed’s sharp intake of breath. “No sign of Maggie?”

“Nothing.”

“Either she’s on the move, or they’ve already picked her up.”

“That’s the way I see it. Hal, if she was on the run I would have expected her to contact you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Brognola said. “Are you still at the house?”

“I’m leaving now. Give me time to get out of the area, then call it in. Let the Miami P.D. do their thing and look after the victims.”

“Will do. Striker, what the hell are these people after?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I find out.”

Bolan recalled some information he had found when reading Maggie’s file back at Stony Man Farm. Paul Sebring had worked with Maggie years back as her photographer. They had operated out of Central America, covering revolutions and military operations, bringing back hot reports and images. Then Sebring stepped away from the war zones and opened a photography studio in Miami. According to her file, Maggie and Sebring were still close and she sometimes used him to look after material she sent in from foreign assignments.

Bolan left Maggie’s house and headed back in the direction of the city.

2

Luis Costa swirled the rich, dark rum around the glass, the telephone cradled against his ear. He took a swallow, letting the aromatic flavor of the liquor fill his mouth.

“Did he call the police?” he asked his lieutenant.

“I don’t think so. He was inside for some time, so he must have found the bodies. When he left he closed the gates behind him. Like he didn’t want to show he had been there.”

“Did you recognize him?” Costa asked.

“Never seen him before. Big hombre. Looks like he could handle himself. Maybe an associate of the Connor bitch. Another journalist, maybe?”

“What are you doing about him?”

“I had people follow him back into the city. We took the details of his SUV. Cabrerro is running a check as we speak.”

“Good. Watch him. See where he goes.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we need to deal with him. But first we have to find out if Connor gave him any of the information she has been gathering. Use whoever you need to learn what you can. Remember, we have to contain this. If information leaks the whole operation could fall apart.”

Costa dropped the phone back on its cradle, swiveling his chair around to stare out the window of his Miami office. He looked across the placid blue water of the bay, watching power boats race back and forth, leaving white trails behind them.

The man who had visited the Connor house intrigued him. It was the calm way he had exited the house and driven off. Calling in the police and waiting for them to arrive would have been the normal way to handle the situation, but for unknown reasons this man had withdrawn quietly, leaving the house as he had found it.

What did that mean?

Costa was determined to find out. As Raul Manolo’s right-hand man, he had to inform his boss of this latest development.

His call was answered immediately.

“We have had an unknown visitor at the Connor house. I am having him checked out. Once we establish who he is we can decide what to do about him.”

“A cop? Federal agent?” Manolo asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”

“Could he have been given Connor’s findings?”

“Possibly. We won’t know until we establish his identity.”

“Just kill him,” Manolo said.

“Shouldn’t we first find out if he knows anything? In case he has passed any information along.”

“This is fucking ridiculous. How many people do we have to deal with until we’re sure we have things contained?”

“Let me deal with this. After all, it is what you are paying me for,” Costa soothed.

“Keep me in the loop. But make your own decisions. I have other things to deal with.” Manolo slammed down the phone.

Costa’s lieutenant called half an hour later.

“Cabrerro ran down the SUV through the rental agency. He tried a background check on the company that rented it. Nothing. He ran into serious encoding. No way can we find out who this hombre works for.”

“What about him?”

“Same. No background details. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Keep checking.” Costa considered what he had just heard. “Tomás, be ready to pull this guy off the street. We can’t afford to have him poking around too much.”

“Just give the word and he’s ours.”

“We need him alive, Tomás. He can’t tell us anything if he’s dead.”

Costa opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cell phone. He dialed one of three special numbers. The man on the other end of the phone was an American.

“We have encountered an unexpected visitor. He was seen entering and leaving the Connor house. Didn’t wait around.” Costa recited the license plate number of the SUV his people had seen. “We can’t find anything about him, or who rented the vehicle. He could be a nuisance. Use your police contact to identify him.”

“I’ll see what I can do. What have you done about him?”

“At the moment, I am keeping him under surveillance. I want to see what he does.”

“Don’t let him run on a long leash. If he gets lucky your troubles might get bigger.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Costa muttered as he disconnected the call.

THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.

Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”

“I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”

As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.

“I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”

Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.

Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.

“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.

“Now you have me worried.”

They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.

“Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.

“Is she okay?”

“That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.

“I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted me, Maggie…well, she sounded stressed. I’ve known her a long time and she isn’t easily rattled.”

“Did she tell you what was getting to her?”

“Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”

“Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”

Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.

“This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”

Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.

“I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.

“I’ll know when I read them.”

“No, you won’t,” someone said.

The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.

“Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.

Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.

Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.

Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.

As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him a second time. The man stepped back, trying to avoid the blow. He moved too far and stepped over the edge of the top step. He tumbled down the steps, turning over a couple of times before hitting the bottom where he lay motionless.

Bolan returned to Sebring’s office. He found the photographer slumped on the floor beside his desk, a bloody hand clutched to his shoulder. The receptionist was on the phone, calling for assistance. When she saw the gun in Bolan’s hand her eyes widened in alarm.