The Killing Rule

Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, cat footed through the London fog. He'd already picked up a tail, which was all right with him. Bolan was spoiling for a fight this evening, anyway. In fact, it was the number-one item on his agenda. He turned up the collar of his peacoat and pulled his watch cap low over his forehead against the chill, and moved toward his target.London was one of the most cosmopolitan cities on Earth. Nearly every immigrant group on the planet, including their organized crime and terrorist syndicates, had an enclave in the city. Since ancient times, the Irish had been one of the first and foremost.The Irish Republican Army was on Bolan's plate this night.Pub Claddagh was his destination.It was a well-known IRA meet-and-greet watering hole. Not surprisingly, Pub Claddagh was well used to visits by the English bobbies, inspectors from Scotland Yard and under-cover agents from MI-5. It had also received visits from two CIA field agents in the past three months, both of whom had wound up floating dead in the Thames River with severe contusions, multiple broken bones and a .223-caliber bullet through the backs of their heads. Ballistics had shown that the bullets had come from AR-18 assault rifles, one of the IRA's weapons of choice--one they were so pleased with they had come to nickname the AR-18 "Widowmaker." Both CIA men had left widows behind.Now Pub Claddagh was about to have its first visit from the Executioner.But first Bolan was going to have to get to the door. The two men tailing him were making no more attempts at stealth. Their boots thudded on the cobblestones as they briskly caught up with him. An Irish brogue broke through the thick fog blanketing the street. "Hey! Yank!"Bolan turned to his opponents. They were large men and heavily built. One wore his hair cropped short, the other had shaved his head. Their lumpish faces, poorly set broken noses, scarred brows and cauliflower ears only added to the "goon" effect. They looked like archetypal British soccer hooligans, only they spoke with Irish accents that could be cut with a knife. The skinhead leaned forward, jutting a jaw you could break a croquet mallet on."And where d'you think you're going?"Bolan spit casually on the pavement between them."What's it to you, Paddy?""Paddy!" The skinhead grinned happily. "D'you hear that, Liam?""Oh, I do, Shane." Liam smiled like a shark. "A bold boy, this one."Both men were dressed in Team Ireland football jerseys voluminous enough to hide some significant weapons. Bolan suspected this was to be a beating, albeit a brutal one, rather than an assassination or a kidnapping."If you two are looking to beg a fiver, bugger off. If you're looking to get buggered, you've got each other."Shane laughed delightedly. The American was being very obliging.Liam's eyes narrowed slightly. He was a predator, but he sensed something was wrong. The American wasn't belligerent or filled with drunken defiance. He was showing no fear whatsoever, and his burning blue eyes were disturbing even in the dim light. Liam folded his arms across his thick chest and tsked sadly, still confident in his and his partner's control of the situation. That was his first and last mistake.Bolan took the opportunity to kick Shane in the shin.During the early years of the Cold War, the OSS and other intelligence agencies had issued shoes with steel toecaps for crippling opponents in sudden struggles. Such modifications couldn't make it through today's airport X-ray or metal detector screenings, but Bolan had the modern equivalent made out of polycarbonate Lexan that had the tensile strength of industrial-grade cast zinc. They weren't quite as strong as steel, but then again neither was Shane's tibia. The bone cracked with an audible click noise.Shane let out an amazingly high-pitched scream for a man of his size.Liam had made the unforgivable mistake of crossing his arms and posturing wPendleton, Don is the author of 'The Killing Rule', published 2008 under ISBN 9780373615216 and ISBN 0373615213.