Sold For Slaughter (The Executioner, No. 60)
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A federal government agent was missing, a very special agent. Mack Bolan found her in a chicken coop in Kansas. At first the sultry beauty did not recognize Mack. At first she could only moan.Her name was Smiley Dublin, a Ranger girl from Bolans war against the Mafia. She had fallen prey to pitiless slavers who treated humans like cattle-abducting, drugging, beating, selling them. Bolan's gut burned. In a Jersey warehouse, he squeezed Tommy the Weasel til he squealed, then followed a trail of horror all the way to Algiers. He would make the flesh peddlers pay with their blood.
language of colonialism lingered on, and English-speaking residents were a large minority, at best. The Executioner had bet against the odds, and he had come up short. He was not bilingual, though a double tour in Vietnam — another erstwhile French possession — taught him fragments of the language. He could make out snatches of the Arab's monologue, a sentence here and there amid the verbal rapid-fire. Rani was arguing with someone named Armand. The names LaMancha and DeLuccia kept surfacing,
predator himself, and long accustomed to the jungle darkness, Bolan felt at home there. The night could be his friend, his shelter. Enemies who sought him in the darkness might discover more than they had bargained for. A noose was closing in Algiers, a hangman's harness snugging tight around the savage throat. A grim, relentless Executioner was ready now to spring the trap. And there was nothing left to do but wait. * * * Rani knew the city after dark. He was a creature of the streets,
duffel bags on either shoulder. He would not leave anything behind that could later identify him. The Audi would be serving as his mobile operations base until he found Smiley or until the enemy shot it out from under him — whichever came first. It was time to move. The doomsday fuse was lighted and burning fiercely in Algiers. In the wake of that apocalyptic blast, there would be nothing left unchanged. The Executioner was blitzing on. * * * Smiley Dublin struggled in the darkness, battling
pained body. As the countess indulged in her sick fantasies, the tough female Fed dreamed of freedom, of revenge and of her savior, Mack Bolan. She conjured up a clear vision of Mack, dressed in the traditional threads of U.S. mercenaries, armed to the teeth, protecting her with mighty firepower. And Smiley pictured herself wearing the wardrobe of a belly dancer, the halter top clinging tightly to her breasts — it was the last outfit she had seen a free woman wearing, and it became hers. In the
Never to his face, of course. When they were on the phone, it was just plain Tommy.'' Recognition signals started flashing in Bolan's brain. He made the name, and dredged a face out of his mental mug file. The Weasel tag was not uncommon in the underworld, but this one's first name and his link to Ben Battaglia reminded the Executioner of one specific rodent. He would have to check it out, in any case, and that would mean a trip to Jersey. ?You up to traveling?'' he asked. She watched him for