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“You’ve walked into something bigger than you ever figured.”

A sudden burst of confidence boosted Janssen’s ego. “One call and you’re history, Colonel. My employer can get you busted down to buck private.”

“You still don’t get it,” the Executioner said. “I don’t give a damn. You can’t touch me. I’m not in the system. Civilian or military.” Bolan moved his hand so Janssen could see the Beretta. “And this is all the backup I need.”

“So who are you working for?”

Even as the words left Janssen’s mouth his skull blew apart, filling the air with a hazy mist. As Janssen fell the distant bang of the shot reached Bolan’s ears. He was already dropping to the ground, Janssen’s shuddering corpse following him down.

Looking back over his shoulder, Bolan checked out the hole in the armory wall. Big. The bullet had punched through with ease.

A powerful and deadly weapon in the hands of a skilled shooter.

And now Bolan was a target.

System Corruption
Don Pendleton

The Executioner^®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The principal foundations of all states are good laws and good arms; and there cannot be good laws where there are not good arms.

—Niccolò Machiavelli

1469–1527

The Prince

I will use all of the weapons at my disposal against those who decide they are above the law. Justice will prevail.

—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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Prologue

The background hum of electronics faded to silence as Frank Carella read through the columns of figures on the wide monitor screen. He reread sections, confirming in his mind what he had just seen, because as reality hit home he found it almost impossible to digest and accept what he was seeing. He leaned an elbow on the console desk and rested his head in his hand, aware that he was trembling—not with excitement, but from sheer disbelief. Studying the scrolling tables, the lines of test results and the conclusions reached, he spent the next ten minutes going over the data, until he finally admitted to himself that his initial reaction had been correct.

The Ordstrom Tactical Group, the company he worked for, had taken negative test results for high-impact armored steel plates used in combat vehicles being supplied to the United States military and had passed those false results into the production system. Carella saw, too, that the specifications had been signed off by one of the company’s heads of quality control, and had been countersigned by Jacob Ordstrom, the CEO. The man not only owned OTG but also ran it like his personal fiefdom.

Carella had stumbled over the specifications by pure accident. He had been inputting fresh data into the company’s massive mainframe computer, working on information drawn from other computers around the manufacturing complex. A momentary power spike had caused a blip, forcing the backup system to shunt Carella’s current work into a safety file. It was standard operating procedure, a decision made by the online computer itself. Carella waited until he received the go-ahead to resume work, keying in the commands that would restore his data. When the file was restored to his monitor he saw a huge amount of extra data that had attached to the end of his string. Carella isolated his own data and saved it to a separate file, then returned to check out the mystery information.

The first thing he noticed was that he had been presented with data from a deletion cache. Someone had dumped a massive file, expecting it to be erased completely, but had neglected to key in the final code that would ensure no trace would be retained. Carella found himself intrigued by the large amount of data. His curiosity made him look further and that was where he found something that pinned him in his seat, staring at the document header. The file names rang a bell at the back of his mind. He tapped in more commands and began to scroll through the data. A sudden chill of unease enveloped him. He cross-referenced the data, moving back and forth, checking and rechecking. The more he dug the colder the chill became.

He brought up the current specs for the armor plating—the one being used in production. He applied a split screen, laying both sets of specifications side by side, and scrolled through the text. It only took him a dozen pages to confirm that the test failure spec was identical to the one being used to make the plating. Headings and dates had been altered, so the failed equations and tables were online as a successful development.

Carella froze, staring at the twin images on the large monitor.

What the hell was going on?

It was deception on a huge scale. Someone had made a conscious decision to push through the below-standard specifications as the genuine article, and the inferior armor plating was being manufactured and fitted to combat vehicles.

Why would OTG let itself be compromised? Carella wondered.

He knew the company had been struggling to meet contract deadlines. They were in tough competition with rival companies within the armaments business. There had been serious complaints from stockholders who were dissatisfied with results and had put Jacob Ordstrom under pressure.

That knowledge pushed its way to the forefront of Carella’s thoughts. He found he was having difficulty believing Ordstrom would allow himself to risk his integrity by doing such things. Yet he realized he couldn’t conjure up any other logical explanation.

His next thoughts were tinged with anger. Anger at the thought of American soldiers being put at risk. Wasn’t it enough that they were already at risk every day in the combat zones of Iraq and Afghanistan. This wasn’t right. It couldn’t be accepted.

He had to do something.

But what?

Carella slid open a drawer and took out a pair of flash drives. He slid the first into the USB port, then set the computer to make a copy of the files he had on-screen. He retained the split-screen function. It took the computer a few minutes to download all the data. Carella then made a second copy. He capped the drives and dropped them into his jacket pocket. He reconfigured the two data sets and logged back on to his original task, completing the operation. He saved the data to the appropriate file, logged out, gathered his paperwork and pushed back from the desk.

He made his way out of the computer vault, using his security card in the reader to open the steel door. Stepping into the brightly illuminated outer walkway Carella realized he was sweating uncomfortably as he made his down to the security gate. He recognized the guard on duty and nodded to him.

“Late shift, Mr. Carella?” the man asked.

“Seems they’re becoming the norm, Lyall,” Carella said with a forced smile.

Carella placed his hand flat on the palm reader, feeling the soft vibration as the machine scanned his fingerprints. A subdued buzz gave him the all clear and he stepped through into the main corridor.

“You feeling okay?” Lyall asked, noticing the sheen of sweat on Carella’s flushed face.

Carella loosened his tie and opened the top button on his shirt. “Temperature’s up a little. Feel a little feverish.”

“You need to take something for that before it kicks in. Shot of whiskey and a good night’s sleep.”

Carella grinned, nodding. “Now that’s good advice, Lyall. Just what I need.”

Carella made his way through the Product Development Division, passing through two more checkpoints before he stepped outside. He made his way to the employee parking lot and into his car, where he sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel and waiting for the tremors to pass. He passed a hand over his dry mouth. He really was ready for that shot of liquor right now.

He started the car and reversed out of his slot, swinging around and driving along the plant perimeter to the main gate, where he had yet another security check to endure. Clear of that he finally drove away from the sprawling site. OTG was like a small city, covering a massive acreage. It had, apart from development and the huge production facility, its own small hospital, restaurants and sports facilities. There was even a small bank on-site and a few stores. And of course the security division headed by Arnold Hoekken. The South African had a reputation as a hard man. He ran SecForce like his own private army. His dedication to the job came second only to his loyalty to Jacob Ordstrom.

Carella had heard the rumors about Hoekken. That he had left South Africa under a cloud after working for the state police. His work for Ordstrom was similar. Again, there were rumors about the way he zealously guarded his employer’s privacy and had no time for anyone who went against company regulations.

That made Carella remember the flash drives nestled in his pocket. If his actions were discovered Hoekken would come after him like a heat-seeking missile.

Carella didn’t allow himself to become complacent just because he was clear of the facility. He knew OTG’s reach went far beyond the outer perimeter. What he had done was with the best intentions—to expose what he saw as a betrayal of the American military. He did not regret that action for one second, but he did accept he had probably placed himself in danger.

Carella picked up the road home, the drive easy because it was late and he had missed rush hour. The farther he got from OTG the stronger his unease became. He found he was checking his mirrors more than normal, expecting to see…

“Come on, Frank, what the hell do you expect to see? A big black four-by-four tailing you?”

He felt a wry smile curl his lips as he attempted to brush off the paranoia. He didn’t succeed. He did become aware of his sweating palms. A sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He forced himself to think rationally. He glanced at his watch. It was just over an hour since he had logged off the computer and left the facility. How would anyone know what he had discovered? That thought only raised his concerns. He had never thought about it before, but what if OTG security had a way of registering individuals using the mainframe computer?

“Frank, you have to use your code to log on,” he reminded himself.

The mainframe held the company’s most sensitive material, so there had to be a way they could monitor who accessed it. It was common sense. OTG’s complex manufacturing base covered a wide range of military product. So they had to protect it.

“Idiot. You dumb-ass idiot.” His shout of frustration was contained inside the car, but Carella felt sure it could have been heard across the highway.

With the realization he had probably left what amounted to an identifying signature on the OTG computer records, Carella fell into a deep mood swing. He was screwed. No doubt about it. Once the record of his session was scanned and the material he had been viewing exposed, he would really be in trouble. The digital readout would more than likely show that he had also downloaded the data onto removable flash drives. The assumption would be that he had walked off-site with those drives. Once that fact was exposed Carella would become a hunted man.

He thought about turning around and returning to OTG. Handing over the data and admitting what he had done. All he had to do was come clean to Ordstrom. After all it had been nothing more than a mistake. He hadn’t gone looking for the data. It had been revealed to him because of a genuine computer glitch. A brief spike had put the information on his monitor without Carella even having to look for it. Surely even Ordstrom would see the innocence there.

“The hell he would,” Carella said out loud. “Come on, Frank, how do you talk away the fact you downloaded the damned information and walked off-site with it in your pocket?”

That was the thing. He had viewed the altered specifications and had then copied the data. Ordstrom wasn’t going to accept that had been a mistake, because it couldn’t be. Copying the files had been a deliberate act. Not a good thing.

And whatever else he had done, the fact remained that Frank Carella had read those files. He knew what had been hidden. Changing the specifications was a criminal act. There was no getting away from that. OTG would be in deep trouble if the facts were released. And Jacob Ordstrom, being the head man, would catch the fallout. As big as he was, Ordstrom would have a hell of a job explaining away such a deliberate fraud.

So Frank Carella had dealt himself into a game that was about to have its stakes hit the roof. He needed to stay calm—to assess the situation and the possible repercussions. Because there were certainly going to be repercussions.

He spotted the lights of a diner ahead and, without thinking, pulled in to the parking lot. He switched off the motor and sat in the shadows, staring out of the windshield at the garish illuminations over the door of the diner. He looked at the lights but saw nothing after a while. When he moved he felt the flash drives in his pocket. For a moment he wanted to take them out and crush them underfoot. Destroy them. Get rid of the evidence.

The roar of a passing diesel rig snapped him out of his immobility. Carella climbed out of the car and crossed to the diner. He went inside and chose an empty booth. He ordered coffee. Through the dusty window he could see his own car, beyond it the highway. He was expecting that big, black 4x4 to show up. He would watch it cruise alongside his car before the occupants stepped out and headed for the diner…

“You want a top-up…oh, you haven’t even drunk that yet.”

Carella glanced up at the waitress, who was standing by his table with the steaming coffeepot in her hand. She was attractive, and the smile on her face was genuine.

“I’m okay,” he said.

“Honey, you look like you got a load of trouble on your shoulders. Bad day at the office?”

Carella managed a grin.

“You could put it that way,” he said. “But I got it figured now. Hey, how about a piece of pie to go with the coffee.”

The woman nodded and left.

Perspective had returned. Carella knew what he was going to do. True, he was in deep. OTG was not going to walk away and forget him. And he was not about to let them get away with their deception. If he had put himself on the spot, he was damned if he was going to give up without a fight.

1

The ending could have been marked down as inevitable but for the intervention of one man.

His name was Mack Bolan.

The Executioner.

It began for Bolan on a warm day at Arlington National Cemetery, watching with an old friend as a man buried his only son.

It began with the shadow of betrayal hanging over the proceedings.

With the taint of deceit and the cloak of a cover-up.

It began out of despair. With the plea of a grieving father turning to the only man he knew who could— who would —help.

Bolan, dressed soberly in black, stood a distance away from the main group, as Hal Brognola consoled his friend. That was the only incentive Bolan needed.

Colonel Dane Nelson was the reason for his attendance. It would have taken a miracle of denial to have kept Brognola away, and especially so on such a tragic occasion. Bolan was here for his friend. Dane Nelson was here because he was saying goodbye to his son. The military funeral was in respect for a young man who had served his country with distinction. Brognola, Bolan, Nelson and his son were all linked by an unbreakable bond that needed little verbal expression.

Nelson’s request had reached Bolan via Brognola through a telephone call filtered through various links until it registered on the unlisted cell he carried. Mack Bolan had a small list of people he regarded as friends in an increasingly hostile world. His life cast him as a transient figure, moving in and out of the shadows, waging his unending war against those who regarded the world as their personal playground on which to act out their evil. Bolan never bemoaned his self-appointed status. He considered himself a fortunate individual, able to strike out against the injustice that plagued so many. They were in no position to fight back. The Executioner acted on their behalf. It cast him as a loner, having to stand aside from normality , so any connections he had with his small gathering of real friends were cherished.

Nelson’s request had been, true to the man’s nature, brief and succinct. He gave the date and location of the funeral, asked Brognola to attend, adding that he had something to discuss that wouldn’t keep. Brognola, in his role as Director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group, had his suspicions about what his old friend wanted to discuss.

So Bolan was here, waiting in respectful silence as the crack of the honor guards’ rifles brought a reminder that while he no longer wore the uniform of his country, he still affirmed his legacy toward its military. He had worn his own uniform with pride, had fulfilled his term and still felt the loss when he was aware of any American who died for the cause. He’d seen pictures of Nelson’s son, Francis, over the years. Brognola told stories of the young man who was a carbon copy of his father. The last time had been just after Francis had donned the uniform. Nothing had been said but Bolan had seen the quiet pride in Brognola’s eyes as he spoke of the young soldier heading out on his first deployment.

Now they were here, watching the boy being buried, and Bolan knew that the father would carry more than just grief in his heart.

Bolan stayed where he was until Brognola and Nelson were alone at the graveside. Nelson’s head bowed, his broad shoulders starting to sag a little. The Executioner walked across the green lawn and joined them, taking his own silent moment to offer his thoughts.

“Thanks for coming,” Nelson said. “Francis would have liked it that you were here,” he said to Brognola.

“Goodbye, Francis. I’ll keep watch over you,” Nelson said. He reached out to lay a hand on Brognola’s shoulder. “We need to talk, Hal. I need your help.” He looked at Bolan, who simply nodded.

As they walked the peaceful ground, surrounded by the silence that lay over America’s fallen, Nelson pushed himself erect again. He was as tall as Bolan. Older. In full dress uniform, displaying the campaign ribbons and medals he had won over the years, Dane Nelson was an imposing figure. Still lean and fit, only the graying hair and the faint pattern of lines in his face betrayed his age. Bolan had noticed the lack of shine in his eyes. The death of his son had sucked out some of his pride.

“I need your help,” Nelson repeated.

“Just ask, Colonel,” Bolan said.

“No rank here. Just old friends.” The voice faltered a little as he smiled sadly at Brognola. Then Nelson sharpened his tone. “They killed him. He was murdered, Hal. I know it.” Nelson paused, checking Bolan’s expression. “No questions?”

“I never doubted your word in the past. No reason to start now. What happened?” Brognola asked.

“Francis was investigating some kind of fraud that originated from the Ordstrom Tactical Group. You’ve heard of it?”

“Big corporation, heavily into military ordnance. Jacob Ordstrom is the president. Word is he has the ear of the main people in politics and the military,” the big Fed replied.

“OTG manufactures everything from flak jackets up to armored vehicles. Ordstrom is a heavy hitter. His eye is fixed on the dollar signs in every contract he gains. Met him once, years ago, and I didn’t like him then. Something about the man that made my skin crawl.”

“You always were a good judge of character, Dane,” Brognola said.

Nelson’s brief smile had a bitter twist.

They moved across the carefully tended lawns. Nelson seemed lost in his own thoughts. Bolan and Brognola allowed him his silence until Nelson was ready to speak.

“A few weeks ago Francis was contacted by a friend. Cal Ryan. They had known each other for a number of years. Ryan is a respected journalist. An astute reporter. A smart man. After Francis spoke to Ryan he called me, said we needed to meet. When we did he told me Ryan had discovered anomalies within OTG design specifications. Test results had been doctored and ordnance put into production. Ryan made the first discoveries and began to look deeper. There were similar flaws in other items. When he checked them out he realized that OTG was falsifying test results and putting these specs into production. It appeared that by doing this OTG was saving millions on production and development costs, enabling them to complete contracts well ahead of time.”

“Wasn’t Ordstrom already making enough money?” Brognola asked.

“Ryan told Francis that OTG had gone through a lean patch. Ordstrom needed to keep his cash flow going, so the shortcuts were activated. Ryan made more discreet investigations and found the company was maintaining the deception even after their finances evened out.”

“Ordstrom got a taste for it,” Bolan said.

“Ryan said the man has a lot of palms to grease. Officials in the government’s procurement departments. With all the military involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan the need for equipment is ongoing and vast.”

“And the guys on the front line get issued with low-standard equipment,” Bolan said.

Nelson nodded. “That’s the bottom line. It’s more, really. Ordstrom has connections with government, contractors. He’s done some deals for the CIA. Worked with some suspect regimes. Ryan tapped in to sources that hinted at Ordstrom’s covert dealing with illegal backdoor dealing.”

“So how did Francis take it when he heard about the substandard equipment? I’d guess he was pretty upset,” Brognola said.

“You knew his feelings for the military. He had a great relationship with the men he had commanded.”

“Just like his father, if I recall.”

“Francis wanted to blow the lid off the whole thing. He was ready to go rip Ordstrom’s throat out. He took a great deal of convincing to take it carefully. Even Ryan made him promise to back off until he gathered enough material evidence.”

“I see a big but coming.”

“It all blew out later. Apparently Ryan had mentioned to Francis that he had discovered some army personnel who were involved. They were part of a test unit that had been signing off on the faulty equipment. No way they would have missed the substandard quality.”

“Ryan must have been working overtime on this,” Brognola said.

“I said he was smart, Hal. He was angry, too. At the way American lives were at risk because of what Ordstrom’s company is doing. He was digging. Searching into everything he could. Gathering evidence.”

“And Francis?”

“I believe that when he learned the names of the military personnel involved he couldn’t stand back any longer. He was on leave from the army after his recent hitch in Iraq. As far as I knew he’d gone off on a vacation. I didn’t find out until later that he went to this base and did some snooping on his own. He told me when he came back. Hal, he must have tipped his hand. Three days later he was dead. Shot in the back. The police told me he was the victim of an attempted carjacking gone wrong. They said he had strayed into a bad part of town. That was crap. Francis would have no reason to do a thing like that. He knew Washington like his own backyard. And he was a combat vet. Not a damn raw recruit.” Nelson shook his head in disbelief at his own words.

“I pulled a favor with an old cop friend and he did some checking. The bullet they took out of Francis was military issue. Fifty caliber. Browning machine gun cartridge. The type they use in the M-107 sniper rifle. Since when do street gangs get their hands on that kind of specialist weapon?”

“You believe the people he’d been checking out got scared and arranged to have him stopped?” Brognola asked.

“It was all too convenient. Directly after Francis was killed I received a call from Ryan. He said he was sure OTG was on to him. He’d heard about Francis and blamed himself for getting him involved. I set him straight on that. Francis wouldn’t have ignored what was going on. He went in knowing the risk. The same as going into combat. It was part of his job. Ryan told me he was going to pull back—gather all his evidence before he did anything final. His last words were that he would be at the funeral. I might not see him, but he would be there. I did spot him for an instant during the ceremony. Well away from the main group. I knew he’d come.”

“Public opinion is pretty well divided over our involvement in the Middle East and Afghanistan,” Brognola said. “It would make a big noise if it came out our soldiers were deliberately being sent into combat with faulty equipment.”

“They already are, Hal. Francis must have pinned it down and paid the price. Maybe not in the field, but he was involved.”

Nelson lowered his eyes for a moment. “Hal, I didn’t know who else to speak to.”

“Hey, you know I’ll help. Leave this with me. You stay low. We need to talk, call me on this cell number.” He recited the number. “Don’t use your home phone or your office. Always find a pay phone,” the big Fed warned him.

They reached Nelson’s official car. A uniformed man sat behind the wheel.

“Chauffer driven now?” Brognola said.

“Goes with the desk at the Pentagon,” Nelson replied. He held out a hand.

Brognola gripped it. “Dane, you know how I felt about Francis. There’s no way this is going to be ignored.”

“Thanks,” he said and held out his hand to Bolan.

“Cooper, Colonel Nelson. Matt Cooper. I’ll be in touch about that matter.” Bolan raised his voice in case the driver was listening.

Nelson didn’t miss a beat. He nodded. “Grateful for your help, Mr. Cooper.”

The two men stood back and watched Nelson climb into the car. It eased away, following the curve of the road that led through the cemetery.

Still watching, Bolan saw a black SUV fall in behind Nelson’s car. He nodded at Brognola then retraced his steps and returned to his own parked car, a rental he had picked up from the airport when he had arrived earlier. He headed out and kept Nelson’s tail car in view. The dark SUV maintained its distance behind the colonel’s vehicle.

Following the tail car, Bolan knew it was not a coincidence. The black SUV stayed behind Nelson’s vehicle all the way across town. It had several opportunities to pass and drive on, but it held its position. Unobtrusive. Keeping at least two cars between it and Nelson. Bolan did the same, his curiosity aroused now.

Dane Nelson’s story of the death of his son replayed in Bolan’s mind. He felt for the man. Nelson’s pride in the way Francis had joined the military and served with distinction was evident. Bolan knew Nelson had done nothing to push Francis into a military career. He had allowed his son to make his own choice. A man chose the military because there was something inside him that needed fulfillment. The army life was not for everyone. For those who chose it the military offered a good life. Serving the nation was a calling. Francis Nelson had that calling. Once he put on the uniform of his country he became part of the family.

Brognola had told Bolan that Francis showed great promise, rising through the ranks in rapid time without favor from his father, who stood back quietly and watched his son’s progress. Francis earned his promotions the hard way. He picked up his experience by volunteering for combat duty whenever it presented itself and earned his officer status after a prolonged stay in Afghanistan. He commanded his own squad. Won their respect through sheer dedication and a caring attitude for his men. When he was posted to Iraq he went with his own squad and served a number of hitches that saw them involved in some hard fighting.