It was a crusade, right. A holy war, in every highest sense of the term. Mack Bolan fought his enemies and wore his scars because he simply had no choice. He had to fight, because he could, and in a world afraid to get involved, that made all the goddamned difference. There was no turning back for Bolan. His war had grown, encompassing cannibals of every stripe, the battlefront expanding to devour the globe. But in his heart, Mack Bolan fought the same fight he had started on the streets of Pittsfield, when he stood beside the family funeral markers and pronounced an oath of vengeance.

He no longer fought for himself, but for all men — the builders and the civilizers who were busy getting on about their lives, too often unaware that it was still a jungle out there.

While the headlines warned them of a danger in the streets, bands of cannibals had organized for systematic plunder and were closing in around them, sometimes in disguise, but always hungry, grasping, never satisfied. Bolan pledged himself to stand between the cannibals and their intended victims. He had put his body on the line, a living sacrifice to honor, duty, decency.

The old words, right.

And he had freshened those old words with blood — his own and that of others, spilled in mortal combat, hand to hand. There would be more to spill before the desert sun went down on Vegas this day. A flash flood, to sweep the wasteland clean — if only momentarily.

The soldier drove with new determination now that the decision had been made. He was taking the offensive, carrying the fire into the enemy encampment, with a vengeance.