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. . .
radio the list to you once we're airborne. These items I want within a few hours. No substitutes, no excuses. Probably get them right here in Marseille. Chopper them out to the Streib. Out.? Bolan had dressed in a one-piece black skinsuit. He pounded on Grimaldi's door and found the pilot already dressed. Jack took one look at the blacksuit and grabbed his hat. ?Must be cooking,? Grimaldi said. Bolan filled him in as they ran outside and caught a jeep to the flight line. Five minutes later
fingers against the unyielding metal. A scream billowed through the Mediterranean morning. Before the wet-suited black figure could move down the submarine deck, a round object soared from the hatch and bounced toward him. With a combat veteran's instinctive reaction, Bolan swiped at the incoming grenade as he would a handball, slapping it into the water where it exploded harmlessly. Even before the sound echoed away, the Executioner was on his feet, charging the hatch, with two grenades ready,
knew it was seventy-three feet off the water. He had to maintain that much altitude, and one chance was all he had. The nightfighter estimated the distance again. By this time he was halfway there, less than a quarter mile from the glaring island of steel. More altitude. He pushed the light on again for one long flash. The surge was greater this time, and ahead he saw a searchlight on the tanker begin a computer-programmed search pattern. The lift carried him higher and higher, and far below he
in agreement. Bolan drew his AutoMag and sighted in on the cockpit for his first shot. He fired and saw the heavy slug plow through the cockpit. But before he could sight in again, a chattering barrage of fire came back. Bolan and Running slid into the gully as the hot lead continued raking their position. ?They've got most of their defense force around that one ship,? Bolan said over the gunfire. Running put the rifle muzzle over the steel cover and slammed off five rounds, then jerked the
it, one arm already punctured by a slug, felt nothing but a single wave of pain rolling back and forth through his body. As usual, the pain would not slow him, would not even be truly felt until the mission was over and the nerve-endings' complaints heard at last. The cart swerved on for a full fifteen feet, tilted and out of control, building speed all the time. It slammed against the far wall and tipped over. The casket was dumped on its side. The moon-suited driver lay crushed between the