Justice Run (SuperBolan)

Interventionism Under Fire 

With Europe in economic turmoil, a small fascist group led by a powerful German industrialist plans to bring the continent under one leader. But first they must weaken the U.S. so it can't interfere. The idea is simple…. Except conspiracists don't count on Mack Bolan. 

In Bolan's search for a missing federal agent, he finds himself in a bloody firefight at the heavily guarded estate of an international arms dealer. As the bodies pile up around him, though, intel begins to paint a picture much bigger than one missing American. It's a picture with devastating global repercussions—and the U.S. is about to take the first, calculated hit. Bolan must chase a burning fuse across Europe and America to prevent this promised fascist takeover.

Monaco
Present day

Jacques Dumond lived on an estate on the outskirts of Monte Carlo. A stone security wall surrounded the property, obscuring the grounds from passersby.

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, was at the wheel of a black Jaguar sedan. He guided the vehicle past the front gate. Peering through the windshield, he studied a pair of men standing outside a wrought-iron gate that led into the estate.

Though he could see no weapons, Bolan assumed the grim-faced men were guards because they seemed more focused on their surroundings than interacting with each other. And the smaller of the two, a slim guy decked out in a black suit, was holding what appeared to be a two-way radio in his right hand. The other guy—dressed in jeans, a white shirt and an ill-fitting blue sport coat, his bald head glinting under the streetlights—fixed his gaze on Bolan's car as it glided past. The Jaguar was outfitted with blacktinted windows that prevented the big man from seeing anything other than his reflection as Bolan wheeled by.

Leo Turrin was in the front passenger's seat. He nodded at the man watching their car.

"The big guy is yours," Turrin said. "I'll take the little one."

"Thanks."

Bolan drove three more blocks, making sure he was well out of the guards' sight before he turned right. He drove another two blocks before making another right and maneuvering around the rear of the estate.

Pulling the car up to a curb, the soldier's mind reeled through key facts about his target.

Before falling from grace, Dumond had been a high-level French soldier who specialized in counterterrorism operations. After a decade he'd moved to the dark side. His business card read "security expert," but in truth he worked as a mercenary and enforcer for some of the world's most vicious regimes. He'd led death squads in Sudan and Sierra Leone, trained antigovernment killers in Colombia and provided muscle for Mexican drug cartels. A scrape in that country had cost him his left eye. Apparently, once he moved into his mid-forties, he'd decided it was easier to sell guns than wield them. He began selling arms to some of the same criminal regimes he'd once worked for. The experts back in Washington disagreed on his exact body count, but knew it was significant, at least two-thirds of it being women and children murdered in the world's conflict zones.

So, yeah, Bolan was hunting a jackal this night. The bastard's blood-drenched résumé was more than enough to make him a legitimate target, but Dumond also had made the mistake of grabbing Jennifer Rodriguez, an American federal agent, which kicked him up a few more notches on the soldier's hit parade.

Bolan and Turrin had arrived there ready to take on the Frenchman and his crew of gunners. Beneath a light black windbreaker, Bolan carried a pair of Beretta 93-R pistols in a double shoulder harness. The pistols were able to fire either single rounds or in 3-round bursts of 9 mm Parabellum ammo. With a foregrip in front of the trigger guard, the pistol could to fire 1,100 rounds per minute.

The soldier also had procured another of his old stand-bys. The 44 Magnum Desert Eagle Mark VII rode on his left hip in a cross-draw position. Outfitted with the six-inch barrel, the hand cannon's magazine carried eight rounds.

Bolan's other tools of war were sealed in the trunk. There he had stashed a Heckler & Koch MP-5 fitted with a sound suppressor, and a small duffel bag loaded with additional magazines for the submachine gun as well as an assortment of fragmentation, flash-bang and smoke grenades.

Turrin, on the other hand, had opted for a Benelli M-4 Super 90 shotgun. Manufactured by Benelli Armi SPA, an Italian company, the shotgun could be loaded with one 12-gauge round in the chamber and seven more in the tube. Like Bolan, Turrin was carrying a Beretta 93-R. He wanted the weapon because of its sound suppressor and its ability to fire multiple rounds with a single trigger pull. But he also was armed with a .38-caliber Colt Cobra that was holstered in the small of his back. The short-barreled pistol's aluminumalloy frame made it light to carry and it was easily concealed.

Bolan eased the Jaguar to the curb, turned off the lights and killed the engine. He popped open the door and stepped into the warm night. Turrin had stepped out of the passenger's side and both men made their way to the trunk.

Bolan raised the lid, reached in, hefted the duffel bag and slid its strap over his shoulder. The bag's weight caused its strap to pull taut until he could feel it dig into the muscles of his left shoulder. Next he pulled out the MP-5 and checked its load. Turrin had pulled out the Benelli and was looping the strap over his right shoulder.

Reaching back into the compartment, Bolan pulled a rope with a grappling hook.

"You realize it'd be easier to go through the front gate," Turrin said.

"Sure," Bolan replied. "No one would notice two guys shooting two other guys and then busting through a wrought-iron fence."

"I'm just making a point."

"Rope climbing a little too strenuous for you, Leo?"

"No comment."

Grinning, Bolan turned and looked back at the wall surrounding the estate. Inside the wall, Dumond usually had anywhere between four and six gunners patrolling the grounds, especially when he was entertaining highend clients, most of whom also were prone to violence. And, according to his dossier, the arms dealer also sampled some of his own wares, carrying a pair of Detonics .45-caliber pistols beneath his well-tailored jackets and at least one combat blade.

Bolan keyed his throat mike.

"Striker to Base," he said.

"Go, Striker," a female voice replied. It was Barbara Price, the mission controller for Stony Man Farm. Bolan and Turrin were connected with the Farm's ultrasecret facility thanks to satellite links.

"We're EVA," he said, "and ready to hit the town."

"You're clear," Price told him.

"Did they crash the party?"

"They" was the Farm's cyber team, which had been working to hack into the computers that controlled Du-mond's lighting, security system and other critical infrastructure ever since Bolan and Turrin had left the United States.

"Party crashed. Once we saw you stop outside the target, we set the outside surveillance cameras on a loop. If anyone's monitoring the cameras, all they'll see is the same empty street they saw three minutes ago."

"Which is fine," Bolan said, "until they realize they've seen the same car or dog walker pass by eight times in the last couple of minutes."

"Guess you'll have to move faster than they can think," Price replied.

"Are you getting any good intel otherwise?"

"Satellites indicate four guys walking the grounds inside the wall," Price said. "Two smaller animals, probably dogs, moving separately from them. That's all in addition to the thugs at the gate. Looks like another moving around on the rooftop."

"Okay," Bolan replied.

He returned to the trunk and popped the lid again. Pulling aside a blanket, he revealed a rectangular box, covered in faux leather, which was about four inches thick.

He opened the box and from its interior removed a CO2-powered dart pistol. Breaking the weapon open, he slid a tranquilizer dart into the barrel and snapped it closed. He slipped a smaller box filled with extra darts into his jacket pocket."

"Still won't shoot dogs, huh?" Turrin asked.

Bolan...