Hazard Zone. Don Pendleton

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      He took his time, walking calmly, and arrived back at the patio. Amber’s girlfriend—a redhead whose name he didn’t know—laughed uproariously when he explained sheepishly that she’d passed out before the explorations could begin. “Perhaps I’ll do better tomorrow,” he said.

      “Not if she’s sober!” the young woman replied.

      Everyone laughed, including Bastiene, and he made a point of staying for several more hours, then excusing himself for the night. On his way out, he stopped by the front desk and chatted with the clerk for several minutes, then he went out the front door, got into his own Jeep and left.

      On his way to the hidden home of the Obeah man, he scrubbed away the makeup on his face and arms that hid the tattoos and scars marking him as a member of the Undead Posse…and an apprentice to the Obeah arts.

      “THIS PART IS CRITICAL, man,” Bastiene said. “The trigger must not move until the autopsy.”

      The little man with the wire-rimmed glasses nodded. “I know, I know,” he said. “I’ve got my orders.”

      On the slab before him was the body of Amber Carson. The drug Bastiene had given her had done its work well. Half-conscious, she was almost unresisting as he’d raped her. The Obeah man had said that his seed would be the magic that ensured their success. As far as Bastiene was concerned, magic or not, taking the young woman had been a pleasure. Her body had been warm and supple, her breasts firm. The way she’d squirmed and wriggled beneath him in protest had added greatly to the experience. Even in death she was still beautiful, the perfect corpse, looking almost alive, a siren drawing in its prey.

      After, it had been a matter of little work to smother her to death, then mark the body with his thin-bladed knife. This final step, however, was crucial. The little man was Dr. Steffens, and he’d been sent by the man helping them in the United States to perform a special surgery. Using a tiny camera and going in through her esophagus, Steffens was placing two items in Amber’s abdominal cavity. The first was a thin metal tube filled with anthrax spores, and the second was a unique triggering mechanism.

      When the doctor performing the autopsy in the United States made the initial incisions to open her up, the mechanism would be armed by the change in internal pressure. Then, when he delved farther to explore her internal organs—specifically her stomach—the trigger would be released by this second change in pressure. The resulting small explosion would tear a hole in the metal tube, spilling the anthrax spores into the room and killing everyone present.

      If it worked.

      The double pressure switch had to be positioned perfectly next to the tube, and also resistant to the natural gases that would build up in her body as it decomposed and the pressure changes that would occur when her body was flown back to the United States. Finding the perfect methodology had been a matter of numerous experiments, conducted in extreme secrecy. Once they’d finalized their technique, they needed to decide on a target.

      It had been their friend in the United States who had suggested Amber—young, beautiful and a senator’s daughter. Her body would be flown back to Washington, D.C., and treated with the utmost care. Taking the job at the private resort where she came to play had been a hassle, but the Obeah man often told Bastiene that the best magic came from association with the victim. It was unfortunate that he’d have to continue to work there for some time afterward—it was the only way to avoid being accused—and even then, suspicions would be high. There was always a price to be paid for such powerful magic, and if he needed to still play serving boy then he would do so.

      Steffens mumbled something under his breath, then let out a long, slow exhale and leaned back.

      “What?” Bastiene demanded. “Is there a problem?”

      “No,” Steffens said. “She’s ready. Just be sure not to bounce her around too much when you move her.”

      “I’ll be as soft as a lamb,” he said.

      “Good,” the man replied. “Then I’m out of here. There’s a chopper waiting to take me back to my ship.”

      “Go, man,” Bastiene said, gesturing toward the door. “I’ll be takin’ care of the girl.”

      1

      Other than imminent violence, few things had the power to bring Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, fully awake like a phone call in the middle of the night. As the first tones sounded from his cell phone, he sat up in bed, aware that these calls never came with good news—usually just the opposite. Someone was either dead or someone needed to be.

      “Yeah,” he said, answering before the second ring had finished.

      “Sorry to wake you, Striker.”

      He recognized the voice of Hal Brognola immediately. Brognola was the director of the Sensitive Operations Group—located at Stony Man Farm, Virginia. He used to work for the clandestine organization directly, but now had an arm’s length association with the outfit. Their mission hadn’t changed—they still took on terrorists and criminals that the U.S. government couldn’t or wouldn’t. When the situation was complicated, they called on Mack Bolan to uncomplicate it. His presence was never official.

      “It’s not a problem, Hal,” he said. “What’s going on?”

      “We’ve got a full-scale mess,” he said. “There’s been an anthrax attack in Washington, D.C. It’s been contained, but a senator was killed, and the whole thing is getting ready to turn into an epic disaster.”

      Bolan knew the security precautions that had been in place since 9/11. “That’s a mess all right. How’d they get anthrax that close to a U.S. senator?”

      “You won’t believe me when I tell you,” Brognola said. “It was stored inside the body of his dead daughter. Somehow, these terrorists rigged it to explode during the autopsy—and, of course, Senator Carson demanded to be on hand.”

      “What?” Bolan was rarely disturbed by the things he saw and heard, but this was going too far. “Her body exploded?”

      “Apparently it was some kind of pressure trigger,” Brognola explained. “When they got to her stomach…”

      “Jesus,” Bolan said.

      “Yeah, I know. It’s unheard-of, and the kind of play that only truly bad men would even consider. The entire thing is on video, and it will be in the file I’m sending. Anyway, Senator Carson was killed, along with his Secret Service agent, the doctor and his assistant, and several other people who ran into the room after the explosion. This was weaponized anthrax, Stricker. They’ve had to seal off an entire section of Bethesda Naval Hospital, and the other bodies in the morgue were contaminated, too. The whole place has to go through decon.”

      “I assume you want me to track down the source of the attack?”

      “Yeah, that and…” Brognola’s voice trailed off.

      “And what?” Bolan asked. “Come on, Hal, you don’t usually hesitate.”

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