Superbolan War Season by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bolan shook his head, hoping to clear some of the cobwebs away, but all he had got for his trouble was a foot in the gut. Now his ears rang, his head ached and he couldn't breathe. It had been some time since somebody had caught him off guard that hard, mean and fast. Mack Bolan had taken shots by the biggest, meanest, strongest, the most skilled in martial arts and the angriest, but the shot to the jaw he'd just absorbed ranked right up there.

He tried to stand, and a fist that felt more like a tree falling on his head slammed into him.

Taunting laughter broke through the ringing in his ears. Through the fog he glanced up and found a Sasquatch, all hair and beard, about seven feet and three hundred pounds of pure mean.

And there were three more on the way. An agonizing second later more bad news was confirmed for Bolan as excited voices began to speak in Spanish.

Bolan thought he caught some of it. Something about the colonel wanting him alive, a thousand dollars each if they succeeded.

"Hit him one more time, Guamo. He still looks like he wants to fight."

"He don't look so tough now."

"Just one more shot to his smug face, but don't kill him like you did the FBI man."

"I need that money, Guamo!"

"For his whores and his cocaine! I have children to feed!"

In the back alleys of the meanest streets in lawless cities across the world, Bolan knew violence erupted, done and over, only the savages the wiser. Any watching eyes would see no evil. They could rob, kill or maim, and the victim wouldn't even warrant a paragraph in the following day's paper. If it was some unfortunate American, they were zipped up in a rubber bag, turned over to whatever U.S. embassy was on hand. The State Department would make a show of outrage, issue all the right rhetoric, but few savages were ever brought to justice. They disappeared, bought off the right people, went on making the world a little uglier. In other words, life was cheap.

Mack Bolan was nobody's victim, anywhere, anytime. Not only that, he had work to do.

Bolan went to work, first to save his own neck.

Guamo was chuckling as he reached down and clamped a fist the size of a basketball over Bolan's head. With everything he had, the lone American speared a fist into Guamo's sac. The expected howl of misery was sweet music to the soldier's ears, but he was far from turning the tide. In one smooth motion he launched himself straight up, a hand darting down and fisting the hilt of his Ka-bar. The big American was a human grenade, the back of his head exploding into Guamo's mouth and nose, the soldier knowing if he went for the jaw with that move it would be like hitting his head on concrete. Instead of taking himself out, Bolan broke bone, took out some teeth, sent blood everywhere.

The Ka-bar was also in Bolan's hand, sweeping for a quick kill.

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