Force Lines by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The airboat swept through the sawgrass but rapidly lost speed. Timed with its cut engine, the big fan inside the steel-mesh cage stopped spinning altogether about thirty yards or so from the muddy banks of mangrove and cypress forest, now carried its black-clad shadow to shore on the final leg of a fading glide. Being right on schedule was a matter for grim debate, and since the beginning of this campaign Mack Bolan had learned a little something more about nasty surprises. Like trouble, they came in bunches, and when least expected.

Something flashed in the periphery of the Executioner’s night-vision goggles as he roved the gnarled vegetation and brush with his sound-suppressed MP-5. It was splashing down, about eight or nine feet of fat scaly hide, roughly ten yards to his nine o’clock. The beast submerged beneath the black waters as it began slicing an easy swift course away from the soldier’s impromptu beachhead.

Bolan gave the banks and tree line a final scan, left to right, spotted the narrow winding trail detailed by DEA surveillance photos “borrowed” by the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm. He hopped out of the DEA airboat loaner, subgun leading his charge into the ghostly green hue of prehistoric marsh and woods. According to Brognola’s own sources, the so-far-unnamed-and-unknown U.S. intelligence agency had staked out this patch of real estate, just far enough beyond 1.5 million acres of national park boundaries—or about twenty percent of Everglades wilderness—they could declare it Private Property Of The United States Government. Who they were, Bolan didn’t want to venture even a remote guess, but they were dirty, and that was all that counted in his world.

The play was set, and as the soldier melted into the deeper shadows he gave it a quick assessment, judged his chances of both bagging another high-ranking Son of Revelation or a black op gone bad as little better than slim to none.

No sweat. He would take the cannibals as they came, for better or worse. The former meant he nabbed a singing pigeon while the latter…

Death.

Simple.

That didn’t mean, of course, he wouldn’t give it one hundred percent of heavy metal thunder and bloody brushstrokes, even against the stacked odds, the flimsy hope of bagging a man-eater. Fully restocked with grenades and spare clips, his com link was a state-of-the-art masterpiece. It tied him into his blacksuited flyboys, the Justice strike force in holding pattern in their Black Hawks while allowing him to listen in on the cover story Drobbler would feed his fellow human snakes. According to a DEA source that had previously swept the area as a potential red flag zone for drug smugglers, the trail wasn’t hot-wired to turn Bolan into an amputee or worse, but he used the EM scanner to paint any lasers, other sensors as he forged deeper down the trail. So far, the DEA looked good to its word.

The Executioner had what he needed, as far as steely determination, audacity and hardware went. As usual, however, there was good news and bad news.

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