Crude Kill (Executioner, Book 59)
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Lutfi, a master terrorist, had commandeered the largest oil tanker in the world. The vandal threatened to blow up the ship and turn the Mediterranean into a giant oil slick.
Mack Bolan boarded the tanker as a one-man assault squad. He struck with lightning, savaging everything in his path until it came down to just two men: Bolan and Lutfi.
In the black steel bowels of the ship, as Bolan tracked his prey, he heard the sound of a grenade-spoon popping off as his foot brushed against it in the darkness. Now the little deathmaker was activated. Bolan would be dead in 4.4 seconds. . .
the silence seemed threatening. Sharp pain from the minor shrapnel broke through the anesthetic of his combat adrenaline. Flecks of blood from the surface punctures and grazes soaked into the fabric around them. Nothing serious—so far. Bolan checked the magazine in the Beretta, pulled it out and put in a special 60-round magazine he had been saving in the pack. The Beretta manufacturers had recently built a few according to specifications from Andrzej Konzaki, Bolan's weaponsmith. He moved more
father was driven to desperation by Mafia loan-sharks, had killed Bolan's mother and sister, had wounded his kid brother, Johnny, and had taken his own life. But that tragic event alone did not sustain the blitz artist for a whole decade. What sustained him was an awareness that a whole new war was being waged on the home front, that he had the skills to engage in that war, to become that war. Now, Bolan, as Colonel John Phoenix, had a new life—he had been made chief of the Sensitive Operations
had been in Nam with the big redhead. They had worked many missions side by side in the days of Able. Then the guy took a field commission, was wounded and shipped stateside. The day Walt received his Army discharge, he joined the State Department. The man had become a popular and outstanding politician. Later he had secretly renewed his friendship with Mack Bolan during Bolan's incarnation as Colonel John Phoenix, to become one of the few men in Washington that Bolan could personally relate to.
pinpointed the gunman in the entranceway. The nightfighter had swung up his silenced Beretta 93-R machine pistol as he dropped. It coughed three times, the suppressor choking down the blast of steel-jacketed 9mm death messengers. All three tore into the ambusher's head, slamming him backward against the wall already splattered with the gunman's hot blood and brain tissue. Before the body slumped to the dusty entrance, Bolan was running alongside the house. A light blinked on at his left but died
his flight suit and leafed through them. They were specifications on the Contessa. The craft was classified as a Super Ultra large Crude Carrier (SUCC). It carried one and a half million tons of crude oil direct from the Persian Gulf to the hungry refineries spread across Europe. She was 2,400 feet long, just short of half a mile, 430 feet from scupper to scupper and seven stories high. She carried everything she needed for a year at sea for her crew and self-maintenance. For the crew there was