Vostok screamed as he was hauled through the air

Mack Bolan looked around. His enemies were moving in on every side. He fired at them repeatedly, emptying his rifle, then his pistols. As he knelt, trying to find cover among the demolished battlements, he slapped fresh magazines into both weapons.

The numbers were against him. He could fire every round he had and not kill every foe. The Executioner was about to be overwhelmed.

Surrender didn’t enter his mind. The odds might be great, but he had always been one man against an army. He had never had the odds with him, never held strength in numbers, had never known anything but bold determination in the face of death.

He was Mack Bolan. He would die fighting.