Even so, Mason couldn’t help wondering if this was out of Hal Brognola’s scope.
He returned to his house and switched on his laptop, bringing up the extensive file on Marchinski. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, whether any of the pages of information could suggest some way he could outmaneuver the man.
After an hour, he pushed to his feet and went to the kitchen. He forced himself to prepare a pot of coffee, the smell of freshly ground beans failing to work their usual magic. Mason waited while the coffee percolated, and when it was ready he filled a mug and stood over it, distracted by the thoughts churning through his mind.
Who was he kidding?
This wasn’t going to work. Not even Hal Brognola could return Abby unhurt.
“Is there enough in that pot for one more mug?”
The voice, coming from behind him, was strong and firm, and it had a quality Mason found uplifting.
He turned and saw the man standing a few feet behind him. Relaxed. Confident.
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, had just joined the fight.
Chapter 2
“Hal told me about your problem,” the stranger said. “Let’s see if we can figure out a solution.”
Mason found himself filling a second mug and sliding it across the kitchen counter.
“Matt Cooper,” the man said by way of introduction.
He was tall, Mason saw. Over six feet and dark-haired. Cooper’s eyes were an intense shade of blue, and he studied Mason with an unflinching gaze. He was well built, but there was a relaxed grace to his movements. Dressed in black, Cooper wore a thin leather jacket, unzipped, so that when he turned Mason spotted the shoulder-holstered auto pistol.
“I was told not to involve any...”
“You asked Hal for help. You told him not to bring in any official agencies.”
“You’re not a cop? FBI?”
Bolan smiled. “Only three people are in on this. You, Hal and me.”
“You work for Hal?” Mason asked.
“I work with Hal, but you won’t find my name on any official databases, and I don’t carry a badge.”
Mason sat back on one of the kitchen stools.
“You must figure I’m ungrateful. Suspicious.”
“Larry, I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“The guy who called threatened to murder Abby if I brought in outside help.”
“He wants you so scared you’ll do everything he demands.”
“Like releasing Marchinski?” Mason shook his head. “His people overestimate my influence. It isn’t in my power.”
“Then we need to get your daughter back before the deadline.”
“How?”
“That’s my part of the deal. Yours is to stall Marchinski’s people. They have to believe you’re attempting to free him. I don’t care how you do it, but keep them believing. If Marchinski has people in the system, we have to give them something to pass back to the organization.”
Mason nodded. “I’ll work something out.” He stared at Bolan. “Can we do this, Mr. Cooper?”
“To get Abby back we have to. And it’s Matt,” he said. “Hal told me how you forced the caller into updating you about Abby. That was a good move. It pushes the responsibility back into their hands. They have to keep Abby alive and keep proving it to you.”
“I had no other ideas on how to handle things.”
“You did great. Now it’s my turn to push them.”
“Do I need to know how you’re going to do it?”
Bolan drained his mug of coffee. “Better you don’t.”
“I understand.”
“Whatever happens, the Marchinski organization is going to have a bad week. They chose the rules for this game, so they can take the hits.”
The implication behind Bolan’s words was not lost on Larry Mason. But these were the men who’d killed Nancy Cleland and kidnapped his daughter.
“Is there anything I can do to help? I can’t even give you an idea of who this caller is. The voice was altered.”
“Get in touch with Hal. Tell him I suggested we try tracing this caller the next time he makes contact.” Bolan slipped a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Mason. “This is a prepaid burner. My number and Hal’s are already logged in. Nothing else. You need to tell me something or ask a question, I’m available anytime. If Hal calls it’ll be on this cell, as well. No one else will be able to get to you on this phone.”
Mason took the cell. “How do I say thank you?”
“When I see Abby back in your arms, that’ll be thanks enough.”
There was a framed photograph on the kitchen counter. A bright-eyed and attractive child smiling at the camera.
“Is that Abby?”
Mason nodded. “It was taken only a few weeks ago at a friend’s birthday party. Do you need it?”
“No. I’ll recognize her now.”
“Nine years old and she’s smarter than me sometimes. A week ago she won her Judo upgrade. Hal told you about Nancy, I guess? Abby’s nanny. I saw what they did to her, so I understand the kind of people we’re dealing with. I realize the danger my daughter is in.”
“Then you know how I need to handle this.”
Bolan turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving the house the same way he’d entered, through the rear door and across the garden. Mason didn’t attempt to follow. For the first time since the phone call from Abby’s kidnapper, he felt there might be a chance he would get her back alive and well.
* * *
BOLAN HEADED TOWARD his Chevy Suburban. There was no sign of anyone trailing him.
Marchinski’s people were not amateurs. His organization comprised violent, greedy individuals who ruled by fear. The deal they had set up with Mason was delicate, and they would want to make sure he was following the rules. Even so, keeping a close watch on Mason would be difficult for the mobsters. His neighborhood was upmarket, the houses secure. There would be regular security patrols and the neighbors would not tolerate unknown vehicles being parked in clear sight or strangers wandering by.
Reaching his vehicle—which was parked on a feeder road at the far side of the residential estate—he keyed the lock release and slid behind the wheel. After hitting the start button, he wheeled the car away from the curb. Bolan drove until he spotted the shopping mall he’d seen on his way in. He swung into the parking lot and stopped the car. Bolan took out his cell and tapped in the speed-dial number for Brognola. It only took a brief time for the secure connection to be made, and Hal Brognola picked up.
“Striker,” Brognola said. “What do you think?”
“Mason is a good man. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“The real question is can we help him? We don’t have a great deal to go on here.”
“I’ve set him up with a clean cell, and I told him to contact you. Get Bear to fix it so any calls that go to his home or regular cell can be traced. We might get lucky and record a voice for analysis.”
Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman was head of the cybernetics team at Stony Man Farm. If anyone could track down Abby’s kidnapper, it would be Kurtzman.
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I start to shake the organization’s tree. See what drops out of the branches. Marchinski and his brother, Gregor, want to play down and dirty. That suits me fine. Snatching that child has painted a target on every man who takes Marchinski’s money.”
“Should we expect some damage here?”
“Only for the organization. I need up-to-date information on the Marchinski crew—backgrounds, establishments and business rivals. I’m going to pay them all a visit.”
“All in hand,” Brognola said, and he
gave Bolan a verbal rundown on Marchinski’s crime family.
Nothing was below the Marchinskis. Drugs. Slavery. Car theft. They were involved in the flesh trade, from street girls to expensive brothels. Then there were Marchinski’s suspected connections in law enforcement. The informers. The judges he had on his payroll.
Marchinski’s lawyer—Jason Keppler—handled all aspects of the Marchinski business consortium. Keppler was a slick operator who kept his client and his business in the clear. Keppler’s law firm, with its dedicated team of like-minded legal experts, made sure the law didn’t trouble their clients.
Until the moment Leo Marchinski made his fatal error. Executing one of his own, to prove his strength. Marchinski had been caught on not one, but two, cameras. The overwhelming evidence had fallen into police hands, and despite attempts to destroy it, the recordings had been secured. Mason had seen the tapes and found himself with enough proof to have Marchinski arrested and indicted. Not even Jason Keppler had been able to argue away the graphic images. There was no doubt who had pulled the trigger. Leo Marchinski was held in jail and charged with first-degree murder.
If Bolan was going to make sure the mobster stayed behind bars, he needed a way to get to the Marchinskis—something he could use to rattle their cage. He wanted to give them something to focus on apart from their scheme to free Leo. To do that, Bolan needed information on their setup, their bases.
It didn’t take him long to find a solution to that problem.
Chapter 3
Trenton, New Jersey
Harry Jigs had no love for either Leopold Marchinski or his rival, Dragomir Tsvetanov. The fifty-six-year-old small-time hustler was no saint, but he considered himself at least human compared to the larger crime syndicates.
The sparring organizations had spoiled life for a number of lesser criminals as they gathered up the city districts. Low-level outfits either sold out to the bigger groups or were swept aside. A number of Jigs’s friends, working similar low-key deals, had tried to fight back, but they’d failed, and in some instances forfeited their lives. People disappeared. Sometimes their bodies turned up on vacant lots or were found floating in the water. The message eventually sank in and resistance fell to the wayside.
Jigs had seen the writing on the wall so he’d left the game. He’d salted away enough money to live above the breadline. He had no family to support and he didn’t own a car or a house—he lived in the same cramped apartment he’d rented for years. Jigs was a survivor. These days, he added to his savings by peddling information. Nothing grand. Just small stuff he picked up from keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut.
One of Jigs’s best customers was a man named Matt Cooper. Jigs knew very little about the man, apart from his direct and unapologetic manner. Cooper was honest and without any kind of hidden agenda. He might have been a cop, or even some kind of Federal operative. Whatever his profession, Cooper paid well for information.
And Jigs was in desperate need of a payday. Sitting in his favorite coffee shop, Jigs perched stiffly on the bench seat, facing the window. Scanning the sidewalk outside, Jigs saw nothing to alarm him. Just people passing by, going about their business. It seemed like an ordinary day. Jigs hoped it stayed that way.
He spotted Cooper as the man walked past the window and turned in at the door. Cooper stopped at the counter to order a drink, then joined Jigs at his table, slipping onto the bench alongside him.
“Been a while, Mr. Cooper,” Jigs said. His hand trembled slightly until he realized and clenched his fingers.
Matt Cooper stared out the window. The first drops of rain hit the glass and slid down.
“Harry, I remember you had trouble a few years back with Marchinski and Tsvetanov. You still want a chance to get back at them?”
Jigs had time to consider the question as Cooper’s coffee was brought to the table. He waited until the server had walked away before he spoke.
“Now that’s a hell of a way to start a conversation.”
“I could ask how you are or talk about the weather, if that’s what you want.”
Jigs gave a short chuckle. “Or you could shoot straight to the point.”
“I need a way to get at Marchinski’s mob—through Tsvetanov, if possible.”
Jigs listened, his face immobile as he absorbed Cooper’s words. Almost from the word go, he was interested. Anything that might aggravate the organizations was good in Jigs’s book.
“This liable to lead back to me?” he asked. “You know what those assholes are like.”
“I just need you to point me in the right direction, Harry. I’m looking for locations where they might have an operation going on, a few names I can zero in on. No one needs to know where my information came from.”
Jigs smiled.
He slid a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began to write, filling a paper napkin with information and talking as he wrote. Once he was finished, Jigs drained his coffee and watched Cooper pick up the napkin and glance at it before tucking it away in his pocket.
“Covers both sides,” Jigs said. “Hit any of those locations and you hurt them where it matters.”
“Thanks, Harry. That’s all I need.” Cooper drew a folded envelope from his pocket and passed it to the man under the table. “Buy yourself a steak dinner.”
From the thickness of the envelope, Jigs realized he’d be able to buy himself a plentiful supply of steaks and a private table to go with them.
Cooper stood, dropping a ten-dollar bill on the table. “For the coffee,” he said. “You watch your back.”
“I’ll do some more checking,” Jigs said. “See what else I can dig up.”
“No risks, Harry. Just take it easy,” Bolan said. “There’s a cell number on the inside of the envelope. You can contact me if anything comes up.”
“Okay.”
“Remember what I said. Don’t go out on a limb.”
“You got it,” Jigs said.
Cooper walked out of the coffee shop, turning up his collar against the rain as he stepped out onto the street. A moment later he was gone. And Jigs was on his own once again.
* * *
MACK BOLAN MADE his way back to his SUV. He sat for a moment, listening to the rain drum on the roof, his mind working as he selected one of the locations on Jigs’s napkin. He took out his cell and called Stony Man Farm, greeting Barbara Price when she answered. He gave her the information from Jigs and asked for details on the first location. He also asked for photo ID of organization members, if possible.
“Have Bear check police files. They might not have been convicted but I’m pretty sure most of the perps have been pulled in over the years, so there’ll be mug shots.”
“I’ll have everything downloaded to your cell.”
“That’s good,” Bolan said. He read out the rest of the information Jigs had given him. “Same with these.”
“You planning a vacation?” Price asked.
“No. Just working on targets.”
Price didn’t reply instantly. “Be safe, Striker. There are people here who care about you.”
“That works both ways,” Bolan said before ending the call.
As he fired up the SUV, he heard his phone ping. That would be his first information feed from Stony Man. He checked the download, then drove to the motel he was using as a temporary base.
Bolan parked outside his unit, grabbed a large carryall from the SUV and took it inside. He dropped the bag onto the bed and unzipped it. Along with some changes of clothing, Bolan had brought a selection of weapons to add to the Beretta 93R he was already wearing. He checked his supplies then crossed the room to make some coffee.
It was the same in a thousand motels across the country—an electric kettle, a couple of mugs and a supply of sachets holding coffee, tea and small
cartons of sterilized milk. Bolan wasn’t in the mood to find a diner, but he needed some caffeine and the comparative privacy of the anonymous room. He filled the kettle and set it to boil.
His cell pinged again. Bolan sat on the edge of the bed and scanned the information Aaron Kurtzman and the Stony Man cyber team had compiled.
Marchinski and Tsvetanov were both hotheaded thugs with the delusion they were invincible. They ran their organizations along predictable lines—working in the basest criminal theaters and using violence, intimidation and bribery. As he moved down the list, Bolan realized the organizations operated in every possible illegal trade: drugs, prostitution, theft, pornography and human trafficking.
Bolan’s water had boiled, so he made a quick mug of coffee and kept going through the data. Jigs had supplied the bare bones and Kurtzman had fleshed out all the details, giving Bolan enough ammunition to bring Executioner fury down on the crime syndicates.
Bolan’s main concern was retrieving Abby Mason alive and well, but his forays against Marchinski and Tsvetanov would add a sweetener to his strikes.
Disrupting the lives of Marchinski and Tsvetanov would take the spotlight off Abby—even if it was only for a short time—and that breather would allow Bolan to work his way through the organizations, removing some of their top men while he found out where the girl was being held.
Chapter 4
Trenton, New Jersey
Harry Jigs’s information was proving out.
The Tsvetanov warehouse was one of many in an old industrial park on the fringes of Trenton. It was late afternoon by the time Bolan cruised through the worn-down area, taking in the shabby buildings and storage facilities. A couple of expensive cars were parked alongside one storage area; they were high-end models that looked out of place behind a sagging wire fence.
Bolan rounded the west side of the yard—easing the SUV along a narrow service road—and parked at the far end, angling the vehicle so he’d have an easy exit. Kurtzman had sent an aerial view of the neighborhood, allowing Bolan to check out available escape routes.
Maximum Chaos Page 2
