Hell Night [A Mack Bolan: The Executioner Novel] [Secure]
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by Don Pendleton
Description: BLOOD BROTHERS.... The deadliest, most organized threat ever to homeland security is situated in America's own backyard. A violent, militant arm of a neo-Nazi group has forged an unholy alliance with Palestinian terrorists to bring about a mutual goal. They want to generate panic, chaos and bloodshed on America's streets. With limited intelligence available and even less time, Mack Bolan works down a hit list of strikes planned by both groups--at home and abroad. The attacks are intended to destabilize America's military, legal and government institutions, and light the fuse for the final act of terror against the heart of U.S. political power. The Executioner's urgent directive comes straight from the President: do anything to stop this--and do it now.
eBook Publisher: Harlequin/Gold Eagle,
eBookwise Release Date: February 2008
7 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats [Secure - What's this?]: OEBFF Format (IMP) [371 KB]
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The huge windowpane closest to the bank's front doors shattered, the tiny shards glistening like snowflakes as they fell through the bright sunlight. But before they had hit the ground, the bank robber in green coveralls and navy blue ski mask dropped the 9 mm Uzi and toppled to the pavement, dead.
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, crouched behind the Kia he was using as cover. Up and down the row of cars parked outside the bank in Kansas City, Missouri, SWAT operatives in dark blue BDU blouses and matching pants had their own rifles pointed toward the building.
Bolan had used up most of his 30-round magazine from the M-16 A-2 in taking out the window and the would-be bank robber, and now he shoved a fresh box mag into the rifle. The robbers still inside the bank and the cops behind the cars exchanged gunfire. If the gunfire continued long enough, Bolan knew it would accomplish nothing except getting the hostages inside the building killed.
Turning to the ruddy-complexioned SWAT captain next to him, the Executioner yelled, "Tell your men to cease-fire, Tom! If we don't establish some kind of dialogue fast, the good guys still inside are going to get killed."
"Cease-fire!" the captain screamed. Leaning his chin toward the microphone clipped to the epaulet on his left shoulder, he flipped a switch on his nylon utility belt and repeated the order. "Cease-fire!"
As the roar of the gunshots died down, Bolan thought about the strange situation in which he now found himself. He had been at Stony Man Farm, America's top-secret counterterrorist command post and training grounds. In addition to fielding top-notch assault teams like Able Team and Phoenix Force, Stony Man handpicked exceptional soldiers and police officers from the U.S. and friendly nations for advanced combat training. These men were flown to the Farm blindfolded, then left the same way—never knowing exactly where they'd been or who had trained them. What they did know was that they'd never received such pragmatic or intense instruction anywhere else in the world.
Tom Glasser, the sturdily built Kansas City captain next to the Executioner, had just completed a Stony Man session. When a local snitch informed the Kansas City PD of the upcoming bank robbery planned by the Rough Riders—a faction of the American Nazi Party—Glasser and Bolan had been flown straight from Stony Man Farm.
Bolan let the bolt on his M-16 slide home, chambering a round. The air seemed eerily quiet now. He watched quietly as a uniformed officer, hunkered low beneath the vehicles, approached Glasser's other side. When he was near enough, the uniform whisper-shouted a phone number.
Glasser wasted no time pulling a cell phone from a nylon carrier on his belt and tapping in the number. A second later, he had one of the bank robbers on the line.
"All right," he said into the instrument. "Let's cut the formalities. What do you want in exchange for the hostages?" He thumbed another button and activated the speakerphone so Bolan could hear the other end of the conversation, too.
The raspy cough of a heavy cigarette smoker sounded over the speakerphone. "Every damn penny we'll be hauling out of this bank," the bank robber declared. "And five million more for the inconvenience you've caused us." The voice paused and took in a hacking breath. "After that, the usual. A chopper big enough to take thirty people—that'll include some of the hostages—to the airport, a plane full of fuel ready to take off and a pilot who isn't a disguised cop." The man coughed again. "We find a weapon of any kind on him, or anything else that makes us think the flyboy's a pig, and we'll blow his head off."
Glasser looked toward Bolan. Even though he was technically in charge of this operation, the SWAT commander had just spent a month enduring the most rigorous cutting-edge training he'd had in his career, and Bolan had taught several of those classes. Hostage negotiation had been one of them.
Bolan answered the unasked question by silently mouthing the words, "You know what to do. Stall."
"I don't have the authority to meet your demands," Glasser said into the cell phone. "It can be done. But it's going to take time."
"You've got time," the man across the street rasped. "Twenty minutes."
"I can't even get clearance for the chopper and plane in that length of time," Glasser said. "Let alone raise five million bucks for you."
"Well, you'd better try," the gravelly voice snapped. "Because each minute you're late means another dead hostage." There was a pause, then a low, phlegm-sounding chuckle. "I'll just shoot them, then toss them out the front window you guys blew out so you can see them." He finished with, "You've now got nineteen minutes." The line clicked dead.
Glasser cut the call at his end and turned once again toward the Executioner. He had known Bolan as Matt Cooper while training at the Farm, and still did. "Any suggestions, Cooper?" he said.
"Yeah," Bolan said. "Get on the phone and start trying to get clearance for the chopper and plane. And check with the local Secret Service field office. See how much counterfeit money they've got on hand." He looked the burly man in the eye. "These guys aren't going to have the time or the equipment to check out good fakes, and it'll be a lot easier than trying to talk any other bank or rich individual into gambling with five million real dollars."
Glasser nodded and began tapping numbers into his phone.
Rising to his feet, the Executioner stayed low, bending over to whisper into Glasser's ear. "You're never going to make the twenty-minute deadline," he said.
Copyright © 2008 by Worldwide Library.