Edge Of Hell
He was in rampage mode
It was time to stop playing by the enemy’s rules, and to start doing things his way. Mack Bolan had never been the kind of man to sit back and allow the savages to assault him.
The plan was simple; one the Executioner had used countless times before.
Lean on the enemy. Lean on the enemy’s friends. Lean on the enemy’s enemies. Apply as much pressure as possible until his target popped into view.
Then drop the hammer.
MACK BOLAN®
The Executioner
#250 Warning Shot
#251 Kill Radius
#252 Death Line
#253 Risk Factor
#254 Chill Effect
#255 War Bird
#256 Point of Impact
#257 Precision Play
#258 Target Lock
#259 Nightfire
#260 Dayhunt
#261 Dawnkill
#262 Trigger Point
#263 Skysniper
#264 Iron Fist
#265 Freedom Force
#266 Ultimate Price
#267 Invisible Invader
#268 Shattered Trust
#269 Shifting Shadows
#270 Judgment Day
#271 Cyberhunt
#272 Stealth Striker
#273 UForce
#274 Rogue Target
#275 Crossed Borders
#276 Leviathan
#277 Dirty Mission
#278 Triple Reverse
#279 Fire Wind
#280 Fear Rally
#281 Blood Stone
#282 Jungle Conflict
#283 Ring of Retaliation
#284 Devil’s Army
#285 Final Strike
#286 Armageddon Exit
#287 Rogue Warrior
#288 Arctic Blast
#289 Vendetta Force
#290 Pursued
#291 Blood Trade
#292 Savage Game
#293 Death Merchants
#294 Scorpion Rising
#295 Hostile Alliance
#296 Nuclear Game
#297 Deadly Pursuit
#298 Final Play
#299 Dangerous Encounter
#300 Warrior’s Requiem
#301 Blast Radius
#302 Shadow Search
#303 Sea of Terror
#304 Soviet Specter
#305 Point Position
#306 Mercy Mission
#307 Hard Pursuit
#308 Into the Fire
#309 Flames of Fury
#310 Killing Heat
#311 Night of the Knives
#312 Death Gamble
#313 Lockdown
#314 Lethal Payload
#315 Agent of Peril
#316 Poison Justice
#317 Hour of Judgment
#318 Code of Resistance
#319 Entry Point
#320 Exit Code
#321 Suicide Highway
#322 Time Bomb
#323 Soft Target
#324 Terminal Zone
#325 Edge of Hell
The Executioner®
Edge of Hell
Don Pendleton
The god of war hates those who hesitate.
—Euripides: Heraclidae ca. 425 B.C.
Even as I stand at the edge of hell, I will not hesitate to take action against the enemy.
—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
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Prologue
She stumbled out of the bed, sheets snarling around her feet. Her hands broke her fall, and she swore she heard something pop in one wrist, but no pain was worming its way up her arm. The high hadn’t worn off yet. The floor was cold and bare, good for mopping up ink, coffee and bloodstains.
The sheets finally released her ankles and she slithered free, pulling herself to her knees. The buzz rolling around her bloodstream wasn’t done yet, but she was already feeling the panic in her chest, and the twisting of her gut, demanding more release. She had to get dressed quickly and head back. She brushed her hand across her stomach, one fingertip finding the odd itch in her navel, all along the freshly mended flesh of some kind of scar. In her befuddled mind, she wondered what that was. She didn’t shoot in there, she shot inside her thighs, where no man would look, let alone put his mouth—at least none of the men who paid her for the company they sought.
She reached for the pile of clothes, yanking aside the man’s jacket in her rush to get to her own stuff, but she paused when she felt the weight of the wallet clump across her knee. It was heavy, which was always a good sign, and she tore it open, looking within, as if she expected to find food inside.
There was money, enough pound notes to choke a horse. She crumpled them in one hand and reached for her miniature purse. They would help her out. Trembling fingers let go of the wallet, dumping it flat on the floor, and for a moment, she feared he’d wake up.
She struggled to her feet, slipping her legs through the tiny vinyl shorts she’d bumped and ground so seductively to get the man to come to bed with her. He didn’t tell her his name, but she knew the kind of man he was, old money or some governmental import, a stiff conservative type who repressed his sexuality to the point that he was almost ready to explode. Those were the types who gave her most of her business.
She bent over double. Her stomach was sick, as if there were a solid lump of lead inside it. Her balance gave out and she grabbed the doorjamb, barking her forearm. The fresh pain cut through the haze of her dizzied brain and nausea for a few moments. Then she twirled back into the haze.
She couldn’t find her baby-T in the dark, and she didn’t want to hang around any longer. Something started to smell in the room, and her instincts told her to leave.
She grabbed her jacket and shrugged it over her shoulders, tugging it down and closed to cover her breasts. She hoped that nobody would catch her before she got home.
Home was a swirling morass of half-remembered images. Once she got some fresh air, or at least London air, into her lungs, she figured she’d feel better. Her head was pounding, and she could barely maneuver her feet into her calf-length boots. When she bent to pull the zipper up on one, she tumbled to the floor again.
Bile rose in her throat, and she spit a wad onto the floor. Vile sourness permeated her mouth, but she wasn’t sticking around even to wash it clear. She bent and yanked up the zipper on the other boot and staggered back to her feet. Pain raced through her body like a jet of flame, but she managed to make it down three flights of steps without tumbling to her death or falling and breaking a leg.
The front desk was abandoned, and she thanked a God she wasn’t sure she believed in. Some bit of vanity made her not want to know what she looked like, at that moment. Nauseous, limping, wishing she was dead, she opened the door and a cool breeze hit her face. She closed the door tightly behind her and leaned back against it, gulping lungs full of air.
It wasn’t much, but the sweat soaking her skin had been whisked away, or at least nullified by the misty fog resting at street level. She looked both ways and tried to remember where she was.
Houses were packed tightly together, roads twisting at angles to each other. She could walk for a whole night before finding a path out of this maze. She shook the thought from her mind.
People lived here. All she had to do was pick a street, start walking and keep going. She had to keep an arm out to stay upright.
The road was quiet and empty, and for that she was thankful. If there were any potential customers still out…
I’m not a bloody whore. The thought came to her in a disjointed jumble.
She tugged her jacket tighter around her.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned, seeing a tall man, dressed in a long flowing coat and what looked like a top hat. She knew she had to be seeing things.
He was upon her in an instant, his hand reaching up for her throat, catching and closing around it in a viselike grip. She tried to squeak a cry for help past her constricted windpipe, but she was shoved down a causeway between buildings, her heels skidding as she tried to resist the strength of his pull. Her hands slapped at his forearm, but he wasn’t letting go.
That’s when she saw the flash of a knife.
Then she remembered why she was sick, why she couldn’t focus, and who this man was.
But by then, the Ripper was already beginning his grisly work.
1
Mack Bolan was nearing the end of the night’s grisly work. The iron grip of his hand clenched tight around the sentry’s throat, his Hell’s Belle Bowie knife plunging deep into the viscera of the mobster, all eleven inches of razor-sharp steel perforating and carving organs with ease. The man gurgled as the Executioner twisted and pulled the knife through his aorta, blood bubbling through half-dead lips before he was lowered, still twitching, to the ground.
There was never anything pretty about the work the Executioner did, but when it came to using a knife, that was some of the ugliest work of all. Even with the opened chest and belly of the guard facing away from him, Bolan could smell the hot, coppery scent of blood mixed with the stench of opened bowels. He concentrated on wiping the blood from his knife to prevent rust and stink sticking to the war blade, ruining its cutting strength and stealth fighting ability.
Sonny Westerbridge had mobbed up hard. The Bolan Effect was going according to plan—a series of skirmishes that raised the heat, forcing the enemy to draw all his resources together to protect himself. It was an old tactic, so tried and true that the Executioner could have plotted the maneuvers in his sleep.
“Hell!” came an angered cry off to his left, an unnecessary reminder to the soldier that while he could run a strategy like clockwork, all it took was one wrong glance at the wrong time to send things awry.
Stealth flew away on the wings of the guard’s cry, but Bolan’s sound-suppressed Colt spoke anyway. The lack of muzzle-flash from the weapon, and the muffled sounds would at least make the man in black that much harder to spot. A triburst of 9 mm slugs tore open the British gangster’s chest and throat in a straight line going up his breastbone. An unfired pistol clattered from the corpse’s unfeeling fingers just before he tumbled facefirst into the ground.
“They’re coming in from the west! Move in!” Westerbridge’s voice crackled from the dead sentry’s radio.
Bolan was caught between cursing the big London gangster and giving him a greater helping of respect. The soldier always respected that his enemies could kill him at any time. He never thought of himself as immortal or bulletproof. And Westerbridge had been prepared for him, springing a trap.
Bolan grabbed the radio off the dead man and stole into the darkness behind a couple of cargo containers as men moved with precision, covering one another as they began to swarm the lot. Crouching, the Executioner disappeared into the shadows, checking the odds against him.
“It’s just one man,” someone spoke up over the radio, and Bolan spun, diving from his hiding spot. Bullets sparked on the steel of the container he’d crouched against moments before. Leveling the 9 mm submachine gun with one hand, he triggered a burst from hip level, driving the two mobsters back behind their own cover.
Around him, gunners cut loose, their weapons speaking in the dark. He counted muzzle flashes, getting up to fifteen.
“Is that positive?” Westerbridge asked.
“Just one man,” came the answer.
Just one man, Bolan thought. Keep thinking that and lose your advantage.
“I don’t care, keep up the pressure,” the mobster said. “He’s done enough damage for a small army.”
Bolan decided to punctuate that statement with a special delivery from an attachment under the barrel of the submachine gun. Bolan had chosen the 9 mm Colt for two reasons—one was his familiarity with the line the Colt was descended from—the other was the weapon’s forearm was identical to the short-barrel M-16s favored by Special Forces. This made mounting the M-203 grenade launcher easy.
He triggered the first 40 mm shell at a point where a heavy concentration of muzzle-flashes originated. Six ounces of explosive core burst a shell of notched razor wire with terrifying effect. Once the thunderclap faded, screams of agony could be heard from wounded men.
Confusion coursed over the radio’s speaker, and the Executioner burst from the shadows, racing to the cover of another cargo container. Gunfire lapped at his heels, sparks rebounding off steel and concrete as he made a final, desperate dive for the protection of the huge trailer.
Two more gangsters swung around the area where Bolan had been moments before, but instead of finding their prey pinned down, they realized they had exposed themselves too soon. The Colt burped again, two salvos of slugs smashed into Westerbridge’s men, sending them into the next life.
“Everyone, switch to the alternate channel!” Westerbridge called desperately. The radio suddenly went dead.
Bolan knew Westerbridge was smart and he was scared. Most of the time, the Executioner could count on scared being more powerful than smart, mistakes giving him an easier path to victory. That was in an ideal situation, though.
Gunfire hammered the container he was behind, keeping him from popping out on either side to fire off another grenade. It was obvious that the gangsters didn’t really like the idea of being blown to shreds.
The Executioner slung the Colt, braced himself, then sprung for the top of the container. He gripped the edge and hauled himself up, looking for signs of other shooters who took to elevated fields of fire. There were two, at separate corners of the warehouse roof. Swinging the Colt around, he targeted one through his Aimpoint sight. Holding high against bullet drop, he stroked the trigger and planted a burst into the head of one gangster. Considering he was holding for center of mass, he was glad for any kind of hits. He swung toward the other gunner, who jolted at the sight of his partner going down.
Bolan’s night-black penetration clothing had made him nothing more than a dark smear against the roof of the container, one more shadow against other shadows. Westerbridge had radios and automatic weapons, communications and coordination, but he lacked night vision for his men.
A wild spray of gunfire rained on the container, but Bolan targeted the muzzle-flash, held slightly lower this time and drilled the other shooter.
The sound suppressor on the Colt made the signature of his kills imperceptible above the sporadic suppression fire clanking off the rolled steel construction beneath his feet. He stuffed a fresh 40 mm shell into the M-203, gave the Colt itself a fresh stick of Parabellum rounds and worked to the middle of the roof.
Westerbridge didn’t have night vision, but as the Executioner rose to his feet, staring down from the high ground at the London hardmen who had doubled in number, he did find that Westerbridge had lights.
Suddenly, everything was bathed in the yellowed, tired glow of dozens of lamp units. Two groups of men were caught out in the open, trying to flank what they thought was Bolan’s position, but the Executioner himself was instantly bathed in the harsh illumination, a tall, terrifying figure in black, festooned with lethal weaponry and grim resolve.
Bolan triggered the M-203 into the group on his left, then swinging the Colt to his right and holding down the trigger, ignored the blast that hammered into the heart of the squad of shooters. Body parts and weapons flew, chunks of shattered asphalt also raining on the containers around him, rattling like a brief hailstorm.
The Executioner held down the trigger, fanning the stunned and shocked second group, peppering them with a different kind of hailstorm—a barrage of high velocity, copper-jacketed hollowpoint rounds that punched and tore through flesh and bone, swatting bodies off their feet. The gunmen below struggled to regain their footing, scrambling for their lives, trying to avoid the lethal marksmanship on display.
The Colt finally locked empty, and the ragged troop of mobsters gathered themselves. Those who escaped the grenade blast with minor wounds and the effects of the concussion were already turning toward Bolan, weapons brandished, ready to give the man in black some payback now that he was empty.
The Executioner simply let his weapon drop on its sling, hands diving for the Beretta 93-R and Desert Eagle in a practiced double-draw that had carried him through countless such fights. In three steps, he was airborne, dropping off the edge of the cargo container. The handguns hammered out 9 mm and .44 Magnum missiles as the shooters aimed where he’d been only a heartbeat before. It wasn’t the most accurate use of his handguns, but Bolan was at close range, and he was working on instinct and a lifetime of practical experience. Whenever the muzzle of one of his handguns intersected the body of a fighting enemy, he pulled the trigger, dropping the gangster in a heap with a high-powered bullet through a vital organ.
The Executioner wasn’t standing still. He was charging his foes, moving among them and between them, so that when they turned to shoot at him, they would also catch themselves in their own cross fire.
The Desert Eagle locked open empty and he let the big hand cannon fall to the ground, snaking his arm around the throat of one gangster. With a shrug, Bolan swung the mobster across the front of his body, a living shield that was instantly greeted by a burst of gunfire.
Bolan jammed the still-loaded Beretta down the front of the dying gunman’s waistband, shifted his grip on the would-be killer and clutched the Englishman’s right hand, which was holding an Uzi. His trigger finger pressed down his shield’s finger, and the Uzi opened up on another gunman who pumped round after round from a heavy revolver into the mortally wounded man. Bolan could feel the spent energy of bullets sieving through his shield’s bloody torso into his armor.
The soldier spared the shooter a second burst of 9 mm slugs from the borrowed Uzi, then heaved the dead man aside, using the handle of his Beretta as leverage to spin the corpse into the arms of another gangster charging into the fray. The man dropped his weapon to catch what was left of his partner in crime, then looked in horror down the 9 mm muzzle instants before a single shot sent his brains vomiting out the back of his skull.
Bolan pivoted and dropped to one knee, dumped the almost empty magazine from his Beretta, slapped home a fresh one and continued to look for targets. He flicked the 93-R to burst mode, swatting two more mobsters off their feet with triple-shot salvos of supersonic slugs.
And then it was over.
The silence was deafening.
Bolan reloaded the guns he had on him, then went to retrieve his Desert Eagle from where he’d thrown it down. He checked the battlefield which was the cargo container yard, eyes surveying the carnage. Each body was checked to make sure it was dead and out of the fight. Using the partially spent Beretta, Bolan finished off those who were wounded and suffering from his grenade attacks, giving them a final pill to release them from their pain.
Westerbridge wasn’t among them.
Bolan picked up a new radio and listened to the mobster barking orders. What was left of his hardforce was bracing themselves, getting ready to repel the Executioner when he came for them in the warehouse.
The warehouse that an Interpol agent had lost her life trying to locate. Her murder had drawn the Executioner’s attention. Inside, Westerbridge was trafficking in everything from heroin to enough small arms to equip a small army. That traffic had cost a fellow warrior her life.
Bolan hadn’t known her personally. Neither had Hal Brognola. But Westerbridge was a vermin the Executioner had been intending to visit with a torch of cleansing flame. Other missions had popped up, delaying his actions.
And now, a cop was dead.
Bolan thumbed a 40 mm antiarmor shell into the breech of the M-203, targeted the loading dock doors and fired.
The explosion was sudden and violent. Two mobsters standing near the doors were thrown aside, a third almost cut in two by a quarter ton of steel slamming into his torso.
SONNY WESTERBRIDGE WAS pulling open the crate when the dock doors were hammered off their hinges by an invisible freight train of force. He was startled, but the surprise didn’t leave him flat-footed or numb.
Westerbridge hadn’t fought his way to the top of his organization only because he was six foot eight and 320 pounds of pure muscle. He was a man who fought for every bit he owned, learning every angle, his brain as formidable as his physical form. He wasn’t going to let some asshole in black take everything he had and flush it into the sewers.
Ham-sized hands wrapped around the grips of two Ultimax light machine guns. Built in Singapore, they resembled beefy Thompson submachine guns, just like in the old American gangster movies. Except, instead of holding pistol bullets, their big, fat round drums held one hundred rounds of high-powered 5.56 mm NATO ammunition capable of slicing a person in two.
Westerbridge slung two of the machine guns, then pulled out two more. These were on top of the big Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver he wore in a shoulder holster.
“By God, you fucking son of a bitch, you’re not going to take me down without a fight!” he shouted at the phantom fighter.
Gunfire rattled as two more of his shooters opened up on the shattered entrance. They swept the dock with automatic fire, making it inhospitable for any living creature trying to get through. Westerbridge’s instincts, however, warned him something was wrong.
The regular access door beside the opening suddenly kicked open, and the bastard in black stepped through, his weapon spitting a red pencil of flame, barely visible in the backlighting from the lot. Westerbridge watched another of his men spasm, pierced in a half-dozen locations.