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In addition, Mack has a gravely ill son whose life can only be saved with an experimental and unaffordable foreign medical procedure. So when Mack is asked to help assassinate Henri Foche, he finds himself agreeing. His reward: a chance at survival for both his son and the country.
But before Mack can reach Foche, a jilted mercenary group warns the Frenchman of the threat, greatly increasing the difficulty of Mack’s solo assassination attempt. Can Mack track down and murder the French tyrant as he has been commissioned to do? Does he have the power to restore his reputation as a Navy SEAL? And will he be able to save his son before it’s too late?
the guard at the door called, “Monsieur Foche, the police think we should leave now. Everyone’s ready when you are.” Henri and Claudette both stood up from the table. Foche picked up his jacket, and his wife walked over to the mirror and brushed her hair. Within two minutes they were seated in the back of the Mercedes, with the final two police guards in the front, one driving. The convoy moved slowly through the streets to the southwest side of Rennes and then drove swiftly out to the fast N137
I can eat it in the kitchen and watch Invasion of the Deadheads on television. I see it every week.” “Invasion of the what?” asked Mack, slightly incredulously. “The Deadheads,” said Tommy. “They’re so cool. And they do a whole lot of killing if anyone attacks them. Gotta go.” “This is unbelievable,” chuckled Mack. “I get back here after fighting a war, my guys are massacred, I’m court-martialed, and my own son rejects me for the goddamned Deadheads.” Anne laughed and said, “I always let him
where you can leave a message—hit 33 for France, then try 491 2069. If you don’t want to be called back, give them a time when you’ll call again.” Mack said, “Thanks a lot, Major. I can handle that.” “You on the East Coast of America, old chap?” “Yessir.” “They’re six hours ahead. And you want to speak to Raul.” Mack checked his watch. It was 9:15, Monday morning, and he dialed the number. Again it was a message, and Mack spoke carefully. “I have some expensive work to be carried out in
cut shorter. Mack had long been considered to be destined for top command in SPECWARCOM—ever since he’d passed out number one in his BUDs Class, Honor Man, ten years ago. A native of coastal Maine, son of a shipyard engineer, Mac was a sensational swimmer, once having made the U.S. Nationals. Underwater he could make a porpoise look clumsy, and on land he was a tireless runner, with tree-trunk legs and lungs like a pair of Scottish bagpipes. He carried not one ounce of fat, and was just about
than his wife did. “But what about the fucking body?” he demanded. “Where’s that?” “In the foundation of that new shopping center about fifty miles east of Orléans. Buried in about a thousand tons of rock-hard concrete.” “How the hell did you manage that?” asked Foche. “I got friends,” replied Marcel. “Good friends.” “Anyone else know?” “Of course not. I dumped it into the wet concrete. Drove the mechanical digger myself. Then my pal tipped about three truckloads of wet concrete on top of