Watching.
Listening.
He heard the soft growl of a hyped-up motor. It had a deep, powerful sound. The growl turned into a solid throb as the motor was boosted, followed by the squeal of tires on a concrete surface. Bolan turned as he fixed the position of the car, just in time to see it burst into view from the alley between a pair of long sheds. The vehicle, a bright red 1969 Dodge Charger, slid a fraction as the wheelman brought it around to face Bolan. The rising howl of the motor emphasized the power under the hood. Smoke streamed in the Charger’s wake as the driver pushed down on the accelerator and the car sprang forward, coming at the Executioner in a straight, controlled line.
In the brief splinter of time before he threw himself out of harm’s way, Bolan recognized the car. It was one of the vehicles in the images Jigs had sent.
Bolan managed a shoulder roll, hitting the concrete smoothly, coming to rest and pushing to his feet. The Desert Eagle was still in his hand. Bolan turned about as he leveled the big semi-auto pistol, finger curling against the trigger as he focused on the rear end of the Dodge.
The pistol slammed out a pair of .44 caliber slugs that cored through the right rear tire. Chunks of rubber blew out as the tire ripped open. The Dodge dropped onto its alloy rim and the vehicle fishtailed. It lurched across the concrete, slamming against the side of one of the buildings. The front wheels twisted to the left, burying the nose of the car in the unit wall. The auto gave a shuddering jerk and came to a dead stop.
Bolan was already moving, making a hard run in the direction of the stalled car. He was only a few feet away when the driver’s door was kicked open and an armed figure began to push himself clear. The man gripped a pistol in his gloved right hand, swinging it at Bolan as he spotted the tall figure approaching.
The distance closed within seconds.
The driver pushed himself upright.
Bolan reached out with the Desert Eagle and slammed the heavy weapon across the hardman’s gun hand. Something cracked. The man gave a startled cry, the pistol dropping from his numb fingers. His left hand dipped into the pocket of his jacket and came out gripping a lock knife, his thumb opening the blade. As it locked into place, Bolan sidestepped, launching a powerful kick with his right foot. The driver felt the impact as Bolan’s boot connected with his hand. The force of the blow angled the man’s arm up, fingers losing their grip on the knife. It hit the car roof and slid out of sight.
“Sonofabitch.” The word erupted from the man’s lips as he took a wild swing at Bolan, ignoring the Executioner’s weapon. Bolan leaned away from the badly judged blow, then slammed the big .44 down across the base of the man’s exposed skull. The blow was hard, landing with a meaty thump, and the guy went facedown on the ground.
Bolan retrieved the dropped handgun and tucked it behind his belt. He took hold of the moaning man’s collar and hauled the semiconscious figure upright, slamming him against the side of the car.
“You finished playing games?” Bolan asked.
“The hell with you.”
Bolan rapped the guy across the cheek with the solid Desert Eagle. “Wrong response.”
“Try go fuck yourself, then.”
“I like it when you guys decide to play tough.”
Bolan used his bunched left fist, cracking it against the man’s mouth. He drew blood as the hardman slid sideways, his knees bending.
“Jesus, hell, that hurt,” he yelled, scrabbling awkwardly as he attempted to stay on his feet.
“That was the intention.”
The guy pawed at his bleeding mouth. That was when Bolan saw the dried blood on the leather of his gloves. It was heavy and recent. Bolan recalled the beating Harry Jigs had received.
Corbett stared at the tall dark-haired figure standing over him, deciding that getting his face turned inside out wasn’t worth it. One look into those intense ice-blue eyes convinced him he’d lose more than he was prepared to risk.
“Harry Jigs,” Bolan said. “What did he do that got him killed?”
Val Corbett couldn’t hold back a crooked grin as he played a mental image of what had happened to Jigs.
“Poked his nose in where he didn’t belong. Should have known better.” Then Corbett regained a little of his brash attitude. “I made him realize his mistake...”
“Don’t know when to quit, do you? Figure the protection Marchinski provides makes you invincible?” Bolan spoke quietly, his tone almost soothing.
“If you mess with Marchinski, you bring a heap of trouble down on yourself.”
“You think?” Bolan said.
“Hell, I know. All you got to do is remember what happened to Jigs.”
“I do remember,” Bolan said, taking a step back.
It finally dawned on Corbett that he’d said too much, and he made a desperation play, lunging for Bolan. The .44 Magnum pistol cracked once, the slug slamming between the guy’s eyes. It chewed its way through the skull and took a sizable chunk with it. The bloody spatter streaked the Dodge’s roof as the guy dropped, jerking in final spasms. He flopped loosely at Bolan’s feet.
Bolan leaned inside the car and picked up the cell he’d spotted on the passenger seat. He checked the call list and saw the dead man had made a connection only minutes before Bolan had reached the rendezvous. Bolan hit redial, and the call was answered quickly.
“You get it done already?”
“It’s done,” Bolan said. “Not the way you were expecting.”
“You ain’t Val.”
“You picked up on that fast. Marchinski must be hiring smarter these days.”
“Where’s Val?”
“He won’t be coming to the phone. Things got a little heated, and he kind of lost his head. Most of it’s spread over his car.”
“Bastard. You’re making things hard for yourself, you...”
“Just tell your boss, Tsvetanov says it’s time for him to quit. He should be getting the message by now.”
Bolan ended the call. He dropped the cell on the ground and crushed it beneath his boot.
Then he walked away, easing into the shadows and back through the silent buildings to where he’d left his own car.
The area was isolated and Bolan didn’t expect anyone to have heard the shots. He couldn’t guarantee that, but he had the feeling Corbett’s body would lie undetected for some time. At least long enough for Marchinski’s people to discover the corpse.
He thought of Harry Jigs—a little guy simply trying to make his way on the fringes of the criminal world. He wasn’t a violent man, more a trader of information. He had made a living out of it, too. But when he stepped into the Marchinski/Tsvetanov arena he’d inadvertently moved up the ladder—out of the shadows and into the light. Jigs’s attempt to settle old scores had painted a target on his back.
Bolan felt regret.
He had brought Jigs into the spotlight by asking for information.
The Executioner always tried, and often succeeded, to keep innocents away from harm. Sometimes the opposite happened, and the Harry Jigses of the world became victims.
When that happened, Bolan grieved for them. He could not simply ignore those losses. They would be remembered and somewhere, sometime, Bolan would honor those dead in his own way. Right there and then, there was little else he could do.
“It’s done, Harry,” Bolan said, knowing that the simple words were far from enough to erase the debt.
Chapter 9
Marchinski Residence
Gregor Marchinski took the news of Val’s death far better than expected. The truth was he didn’t really give a damn that the man was dead. Val Corbett had been an employee, nothing more, and getting himself killed showed he hadn’t been up to the job. There were plenty more guns for hire. Besides, Gregor had important matters on his mind.
<
br /> He needed to get his brother out of prison. Nothing else mattered. Dead employees, business, upcoming contracts, they all faded into the background.
Gregor wanted his brother back. Leo was the driving force behind the Marchinski organization. He had the strength to run things. The vision. The authority. It had always been that way. Even when they were children, Leo had been the one to lead and Gregor the one to follow.
More important, Leo looked out for his younger brother. He protected Gregor, kept him safe and even killed for him.
The brothers Marchinski had risen through the criminal ranks to form their own organization, quickly establishing themselves as untouchable. As they gained in notoriety, lesser groups, those who’d stood against them, were quickly dealt with. It became known to the criminal fraternity that Marchinski Incorporated was not to be taken lightly. Resistance would trigger a lethal response, and any group would find itself under the hammer if it dared to stand against the brothers.
With Leo in prison, Gregor was in charge—on the surface. It was not a position he wanted. There was too much responsibility. Too many decisions to make. It didn’t help that Gregor failed, as always, in having the full backing of the rank and file.
Even though Leo was not present, his powerful influence over his people kept them from doing anything too drastic where Gregor was concerned. Leo’s organizational skills meant the business ran smoothly, and Gregor was looked on as little more than a figurehead.
Gregor’s real ally was Lazlo Sabaroff. The burly, physically powerful man had been Leo’s rock, but with Leo out of the picture—and Gregor unable to fill his older brother’s shoes—Sabaroff had stepped up. He’d helped the younger Marchinski to keep control of the organization.
Sabaroff had engineered the kidnapping of Mason’s young daughter. Once Leo had come up with the plan, Sabaroff had the girl taken and the nanny killed. He’d delivered the telephone messages to Mason, making it clear what would happen if Leopold Marchinski was kept locked up.
Lazlo Sabaroff had been a true and loyal friend to Gregor Marchinski.
But, of course, outward appearances could be deceptive.
Chapter 10
Maryland
Going for the head of the snake meant taking decisive action. There was no time for hesitation.
Working a lead provided by Harry Jigs, Bolan was moving in on a rural Maryland farmhouse that was part of the Marchinski empire.
Bolan circled the property and moved in with characteristic single-mindedness. He crossed the perimeter, silent and dark, his presence not noted by the first of the armed hardmen.
The gunman was tramping his path, probably for the dozenth time, and gazing straight ahead. His lack of concentration was his undoing.
Bolan rose out of the gloom, directly behind the unsuspecting sentry, who only became aware of the Executioner when Bolan looped an arm around his neck, drawing him in tight and bearing down against the back of his skull with his free hand. As Bolan applied pressure, he felt the man begin to struggle. It was a futile gesture. Already, Bolan’s deadly grip was closing him down, shutting off his airway, and the man’s frantic twisting and turning simply sped up the process.
Bolan leaned back, lifting the man’s feet off the ground so that his weight was concentrated on the muscled arm around his neck, crushing the bones and shutting off the flow of blood. The sudden heavy weight of the sentry told Bolan it was over. He eased the lifeless form to the ground, quickly stripping away the sentry’s weapons.
Bolan had his own ordnance, but extra firepower could not be overlooked. Bolan tucked the pistol, a 9 mm Glock, into his belt. He snatched up the dropped SMG, checking the load for the Heckler & Koch MP5. The acquired weapons added to his hip-holstered Desert Eagle and the shoulder-holstered Beretta 93R.
Bolan slung his Uzi across his back, took hold of the dead man’s collar and dragged him out of sight behind a clump of tangled vegetation. With the MP5 in his hands, Bolan crouched and observed the layout.
The farmhouse was on his left. Farther on and yards behind the baseline of the house was the barn, a sturdy, Dutch-style construction with the timber painted maroon and white. There was even a mid-sized stable and beside it, an empty corral. The whole complex looked to be in reasonable condition, but there was a deserted air hanging over the place; this was no working estate. The only signs anyone might be in residence were the vehicles parked outside the house; Bolan counted three high-end SUVs.
The Marchinski organization was supposedly using the property as a halfway house. It might have been the twenty-first century, but these human carrion never changed. They operated on the fringes of the law—taking, never giving—and used the age-old tricks of the trade.
Even now they worked on human frailty, the hunger for drugs and illicit temptations. Be it liquor, porn, women or stolen goods, the Marchinskis of the world were always ready to hand it out. At a price, of course. Unfortunately, there was always a ready market. People never tired of the forbidden—the quick buy or the lower price...ownership of something illegal. There was always a risk, but that added to the thrill of getting one over on the good guys. In hard times, when the dollar had less buying power, being able to obtain something cheaper was worth the risk.
Those who traded with the mob only encouraged them, but in hard times people turned to whatever outlet they could find. Marchinski and Tsvetanov simply filled a need. They offered a deal and the consumers took it.
The drug and alcohol abusers had no choice at all. Once hooked, they would take whatever was on offer, with total disregard as to where the product came from. They had no way out of the hell they had fallen into. Addicts would lie and cheat, steal and sell themselves to get what they needed. Lives were ruined and families torn apart.
The endless flow of the businesses demanded more. It was, as ever, ceaseless.
Mack Bolan understood the evil. He faced it on a regular basis, doing what he could to stamp it out. Any triumph, however small, was just that. A victory in his everlasting war. Bolan knew he would never eradicate the world’s sickness, but a single, albeit small, achievement made the struggle worthwhile.
In this case, that would be the return of Abby Mason to her father. The child had been drawn into a savage world and held as a pawn in a cruel game she should have no part in.
The Marchinskis had gone way over the line by kidnapping the girl.
Bolan would see to it they paid the ultimate price.
There would be no quarter.
No mercy.
Only the striking hand of Mack Bolan.
The Executioner.
* * *
BOLAN HEARD THE CAR approach, the sound rising as it curved into view and headed toward the house. He eased back into the undergrowth and watched as the Ford sedan rolled to a stop alongside the SUVs. The driver’s door swung open and a tall, lean man with a shock of corn-colored hair stepped out, unfolding his six-six frame. He turned back to the car and made a sharp gesture.
Three figures emerged from the rear. Two men escorted the third, who had his hands secured behind him. The captive moved slowly, obviously in some pain. His escorts had to take hold of his arms and haul him upright. They followed the tall man in the direction of the house and were met by a man in his shirtsleeves who emerged from the front door. There was a short exchange before the newcomers followed the guy from the house in the direction of the barn.
Bolan was assimilating this when he became aware of a new figure who’d appeared from the far side of the house. He was armed, carrying an MP5, and he stared in Bolan’s direction, scanning back and forth. He was looking for the sentry Bolan had taken down.
The gunman started in Bolan’s direction, the SMG brought into play as he closed in. He had a taut expression on his broad face, suggesting he was not happy with the situation.
The ma
n stopped some ten feet from where Bolan crouched. He looked left and right, even turned to check back the way he’d come.
“Rackham, where the hell are you? Show yourself.”
The element of surprise was in danger of crumbling. Bolan had intended on getting in close and striking before the opposition could organize themselves. If this man raised the alarm, Bolan would have to battle every inch of the way.
The Executioner had a choice: let this man raise the alarm or stop him before he did.
The gunman moved two, three feet forward, bringing him even closer to where Bolan was concealed.
“That you, Rackham? What the—”
Bolan lunged forward, clearing the undergrowth in a powered surge. His tall figure erupted into view, and he was on the man before he could react fully.
Bolan slammed the body of his SMG into the man’s face, the hard impact crushing his target’s nose. Blood spurted and the man gasped against the sudden flare of pain. Bolan didn’t allow him any opportunity to resist. He hit the gunman again, using the MP5 to inflict as much damage as he could, driving him back. Blood masked the man’s features and his reactions were slowed.
Bolan’s left boot drove forward, catching the man’s knee. The blow was delivered with all of Bolan’s considerable strength. The man gave a sharp squeal of pain as bone crunched and the limb collapsed. As he slumped forward, Bolan drove his right knee up into the already bloody face. The guy’s head snapped back and he slammed to the ground, lying still.
Bolan stripped the man of his weapons, throwing them deep into the foliage. Then he turned toward the barn.
The bound captive interested Bolan. It was obvious the man’s trip to the barn was not for pleasure. He was in Marchinski’s hands, and that was warning enough for Mack Bolan.
Keeping to the tree line, Bolan wound his way to the rear of the house, making sure there were no more sentries. He homed in on the distant structure.
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