Bolder, brasher, and badder than ever before -- with an all-new team, the Rogue Warrior faces his ultimate challenge.
A suitcase nuke is on its way to a major American city, and there's only one man who can stop it. Back from self-imposed exile, during which he recommitted himself to the cause, and with a brand-new team of operatives straining at the leash, the Rogue Warrior has entered a whole new phase of his amazing career. The threat this time is from domestic terrorists intent on a holy war -- military insiders gone bad -- and what's worse, they possess suitcase-sized nuclear weapons. The city of Portland, Oregon, is under the ultimate threat, but what these dangerous terrorists will find, however, is a new and improved Rogue Warrior -- not only has age weathered him into the ultimate fighting machine, but he's also got an entirely new team together, a multicultural band of the toughest operatives available.
The ensuing chase to avoid nuclear annihilation is ripped-from-the-headlines stuff, and takes the Rogue Warrior to a new pitch, in which the very survival of his country is at stake. Can Demo Dick and his new band of Seals save the day, or is America heading for destruction? He's never had a harder task...is he up to it, or has the Rogue Warrior finally met his match?
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October 23, 2002
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Excerpt from Violence of Action by Richard Marcinko
"There are occasions when daring and risky operations, boldly executed, can pay great dividends."
General Mathew B. Ridgeway, Soldier, 1956
The stranger slouched comfortably in the driver's seat of his rented black Lexus, a new Panasonic DVD player perched in his lap. Outside, a cool mist had descended over the deserted, tree-lined street. Raindrops pattered a soothing rhythm against the car's roof and windows. The small, yellow flames of the neighborhood's gas streetlamps flickered weakly against the gloom. Extraordinarily expensive, they'd been selected for their graceful lines, not their usefulness. Waiting patiently, the man welcomed the inclement weather like an old friend who'd showed up unexpectedly on his doorstep. In his business, bad weather was an ally.
He studied the DVD player's miniature screen as the image of Samuel Beckstein appeared in a clip from a recent evening news broadcast. Like a conquering hero, Beckstein was vigorously striding down the massive flight of stairs in front of a marble-columned courthouse, coming to a halt before a jackal-like mob of reporters. The camera zoomed in on the civil rights attorney's face as he pontificated about his latest legal victory. It had to be said, Beckstein was not a handsome man. His weary face was riddled with deep age lines and irregular patches of discolored skin, suggesting years of overexposure to the sun. A shock of longish, ill-kept, iron gray hair sprouted from his oblong skull. For an instant, his eyes, deeply set in cave-like sockets, seemed to stare directly at the man in the car. "You're a tired old fuck, aren't you " the man whispered to himself. The electronic file played through a few other similar video clips and then ended.
He checked his watch, a simple Swiss Army officer's model on a stainless-steel band. It was time to move. He'd dressed appropriately for tonight's occasion in a lightweight black wool suit, a black turtleneck, and hand-sewn black leather lace-up shoes with rubber soles. His powerful hands were encased in a pair of thin, black leather shooting gloves. Soft and supple as a baby's skin. The overall effect suggested a stylish, modern-day grim reaper. Appropriate indeed.
His right front coat pocket held a tight fitting assault mask -- a black Nomex balaclava. The mask would conceal his most noticeable feature, a nasty scar running dead center across his forehead. The deep channel was the result of an unfortunate encounter with a Russian rocket-propelled grenade during the invasion of Panama.
He shut off the DVD player, set it on the seat beside him, then slipped an S&W Model 13 .357 Magnum revolver out of the sturdy leather shoulder holster beneath his left armpit. His hand-tailored suit coat concealed the weapon perfectly. The revolver's blued cylinder was loaded with six rounds, each a 158-grain soft lead, hollow base wadcutter seated backwards inside a shiny brass casing. He'd designed and tested the round himself. Upon contact with soft tissue or bone, it would reliably expand to roughly the size of a .70-caliber projectile. Satisfied his weapon was ready, he returned the revolver to its holster.