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  When he’d finally got back to the motel, Bolan parked and went inside his unit, locking the door behind him.

  He took off his jacket, noting the heavy scorch marks. The thick leather had most likely stopped him from receiving burns down his back. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and made his way to the bathroom. Bolan turned on the shower and stood under the warm water, soaping himself to remove the smoky taint. He repeated the process a couple of times before he felt satisfied.

  Wrapped in the motel bathrobe, Bolan walked back into the bedroom and flicked on the kettle. He made a mug of coffee and stretched out on the bed, finally allowing his body to relax. He would wait and see what Stony Man came up with on Jason Keppler.

  A lawyer, the man had said.

  The guy who kept his employer’s people out of jail and turned them back on the streets so they could return to business.

  Marchinski’s lawyer would be likely to advise him on all kinds of legal matters—including the risk involved in kidnapping Abby Mason.

  In that case, he might be the very man Bolan needed to talk to.

  Chapter 15

  Marchinski Residence

  Lazlo Sabaroff had his eye on the throne.

  Until now, he’d faithfully stood in the shadows while Leo ran things and Gregor played second fiddle. The younger Marchinski had responsibility for a number of minor operations that—in reality—ran themselves. In deference to Leo, the rank and file played along, allowing Gregor his moments of glory. Yet they held little respect for the man. Gregor was a bully, but Leo had always indulged him.

  Sabaroff had observed this for a number of years, and his personal feelings for Gregor were well concealed. There would come a day when Sabaroff’s true feelings might surface but in the interim, Sabaroff played the faithful lieutenant to Leo.

  Lazlo Sabaroff had been at Leo Marchinski’s side from the early days. They’d been friends for a long time but never true equals. Leo was the one who commanded. He had the physical and mental prowess, and he was a natural businessman. Leo could organize and plan without breaking a sweat, and he had the ability to draw people in and nurture them. Leo gave them hope and pride in their abilities. He also provided them with material goods and accommodation. It was sound management. Content workers were less liable to complain. Like any good employer, Leo Marchinski had his people covered by professional legal teams. If anyone had trouble with the law, there was always someone available to get them back on the streets quickly.

  As the organization grew, Sabaroff had established his position as Leo’s SIC. He learned the workings of the business operations, which allowed him to deal with minor events without involving Leo. He did this quietly, without any outward signs of doing so.

  After all, Leo Marchinski had a streak of paranoia. He’d survived two attempted takeovers—one from a rival organization, the other from within the Marchinski mob. When these attempts had been discovered, Leo Marchinski had struck with chilling ferocity. Both rivals were dispatched swiftly—a warning to anyone contemplating similar moves.

  So Sabaroff had watched and learned. His personal ambition did not wither, but it was concealed. He waited for an opportunity. When Leo was arrested and charged with the murder of Jake Bixby, Sabaroff’s plans came closer to reality.

  The sudden emergence of a threat from the Tsvetanov organization had come as a shock. There had always been a rivalry between the groups, an occasional skirmish when boundaries were crossed. Now, with Leo out of the picture, it appeared Drago Tsvetanov was doing more than simply flexing his muscles.

  The clashes were becoming stronger. There were dead on both sides and valuable merchandise had been destroyed.

  Something was not quite right.

  Some of these strikes could not have been orchestrated by either group. Unless there was a third party involved—someone playing the two sides against each other.

  Chapter 16

  New York City

  The office of Jason Keppler, Attorney at Law, was located on the third floor of a high-rise building. The ultramodern reception area featured pale wood floors and gleaming steel furniture. A pair of large desks faced each other, and two young women peered at Bolan over slim computer monitors.

  Mack Bolan wore a dark suit, pale cream shirt and a dark tie. His shoes were polished and so was the smile he offered the receptionists. He also wore steel-rimmed spectacles and a trimmed mustache. Disguises were not something Bolan used very often, but he’d decided to use a little distraction.

  The women looked him over, impressed by his physique and his imposing height. Bolan paused, standing between the evenly spaced desks as he acknowledged each young woman in turn.

  “Can we help?” they asked, almost in tandem, then laughed at the situation.

  “I need a quick word with Mr. Keppler,” Bolan said quietly, lifting the attaché case he was carrying.

  “Do you have an appointment?” one of the women asked.

  Bolan leaned slightly in her direction, his blue eyes warm.

  “Do I really need one?”

  The woman blushed. “Mr. Keppler doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” she said. Her tone was almost apologetic. “You see...”

  “I should have explained,” Bolan said. “My business has to do with the Marchinski group. It’s urgent. Mr. Sabaroff asked me to stop by.”

  Marchinski was obviously the magic word.

  Both young women sat up straighter, and the one Bolan had spoken with reached for the intercom unit. She tapped her manicured finger on the appropriate button, leaning forward to speak.

  “There’s a gentleman here who needs to speak with you urgently. He’s from Mr. Sabaroff.”

  Bolan heard a low reply. The receptionist offered a quick smile as she looked at Bolan.

  “Mr. Keppler will be—”

  The door to the main office opened. The man who stepped out was tall and lean. He had medium-blond, neatly cut hair, and his tanned face was relaxed. He wore a suit and shirt that must have set him back a considerable sum. He extended a long-fingered hand and beckoned Bolan to follow him into the office. Bolan couldn’t fail to notice the watch on his wrist—a $40,000 Patek Philippe Nautilus featuring a stainless-steel casing with white-gold hour markings and an alligator-skin-embossed strap.

  Business is obviously good, Bolan thought as he followed Keppler into his office.

  If the reception area had been plush, Keppler’s office outshone it easily.

  Everything spoke of money—from the vast desk to the cream leather chairs to the pair of wide, curving sofas that sat beside the wet bar. The pictures on the walls were that much more expensive than the ones outside. The computer on Keppler’s desk was the same high-end brand as the ones outside, but the monitor was far larger.

  Directly across from the door was a wide picture window that stretched from floor to ceiling. It offered an unmatched view of the city.

  Bolan didn’t allow the impressive layout to distract him. Keppler represented the Marchinskis—people who traded in drugs and pornography, who bought and sold vulnerable young women like livestock. This outwardly respectable lawyer helped to keep them free and clear.

  Bolan squeezed his hand around the handle of his attaché case, his knuckles turning white as he fought the impulse to take Keppler down right there and then. Instead, the Executioner shut the heavy door, his left hand reaching behind him to quietly turn the internal lock.

  “I wasn’t expecting a visit from...”

  Keppler’s words trailed off as he saw the suppressed Beretta 93R Bolan had slipped from the attaché case. The muzzle rose and settled on Keppler’s chest.

  The tanned face became deathly pale. Keppler raised a hand to touch his mouth as if he’d already been hurt.

  “No fuss, Keppler,” Bolan said quietly.
“No shouting. No screaming.”

  “Lazlo didn’t send you.”

  Bolan’s smile had no trace of humor as he paced across the thick carpet, the 93R held rock-steady. He placed the attaché case on the floor beside the desk.

  “With a brain like yours, I can see why the Marchinskis hired you.”

  Keppler regained a little backbone. “Then you must realize I know my job. You won’t get away with whatever it is you’re planning. I can have you thrown in jail for this.”

  “You think so? It’ll be hard to do that if I shoot you before I leave.”

  “You can’t just walk in and—”

  “I’m pretty certain nobody told Harry Jigs that before they killed him.”

  “Jigs? Who’s Harry Jigs?”

  “Nice guy. Sold information. He was pretty low on the ladder—the kind of man you wouldn’t notice if you passed him on the street. Keppler, don’t insult me by pretending you never heard of him.” Bolan’s tone hardened, and the expression in his cold eyes made Keppler take a step back. “You’ve got guilt written all over your face.”

  “You have me all wrong,” Keppler said. “I just represent Mr. Marchinski when he needs assistance on simple business deals.”

  “Which deals are those? His drug negotiations? Or the porn business? Stolen cars? You want me to recite the whole list of crimes you cover him for?”

  “You can’t walk in here and accuse me of anything like that.”

  Bolan raised his arm, aiming the Beretta at Keppler’s face.

  “This says I can. Right now, Keppler, all your legal arguments don’t mean a thing. All I see is a man wallowing in the dirt, taking money to represent lowlife criminals. Marchinski muscle isn’t going to get you out of this. Leopold is sitting in jail, waiting to go on trial for murder. His brother, Gregor, and Lazlo Sabaroff are running the family firm while he’s away—still dealing, still watching the dollars roll in. They have their hands full. And let’s not forget the problems they’re having with the Tsvetanov organization.”

  “Is that who you work for? The Tsvetanovs? I should have guessed.”

  “Then you understand the position you’re in—not a very enviable one. If I do work for Drago Tsvetanov, I might be here to put you out of your misery.”

  “Is there a way we can work this out?”

  Bolan lowered the Beretta. He could see the gleam in Keppler’s eyes. The man was thinking ahead, analyzing the situation, formulating a plan to extract himself from this predicament. He would come up with valid arguments, reasons why it would not be in Bolan’s interest to kill him. After all, he would argue, as the legal arm of the Marchinski machine, he possessed valuable information. Keppler might be willing to save himself by turning his back on his current employer.

  Bolan allowed Keppler his thinking time.

  A thin sheen of sweat lay across Keppler’s face. He raised a slow hand to flick at the moisture forming in the corner of an eye.

  “Can I get a drink?” he asked.

  Bolan nodded in the direction of the wet bar and Keppler edged toward it. He took a heavy tumbler and produced a bottle of Jim Beam from the shelf. The hand pouring the whiskey shook noticeably. When Keppler raised the tumbler to his lips, he had to grip it in both hands. He swallowed quickly then poured himself a second glass.

  “Make that the last,” Bolan said. “I need you with a clear mind.”

  “That damned gun is making me nervous. I don’t like guns. Never have.”

  “Working for Leopold Marchinski you should be used to them. They’re part of his business, a business that creates a great deal of money.”

  “Is that what this is about? Money?” Keppler smiled nervously. “Perhaps we need to talk about that.”

  “Could be.”

  Keppler warmed to the slight encouragement.

  “I’m beginning to see a picture here. Let me make a considered guess. You don’t seem the type who would be on Tsvetanov’s regular payroll. You’re a contractor, brought in as an enforcer. Tsvetanov must be paying you to harass Marchinski’s people and hit his business interests while Leopold is out of the picture.”

  “And if that were true?” Bolan said.

  “There’s always the chance for a better offer...” Keppler took a hasty gulp of whiskey. “Happens all the time. Man has to look out for himself. New deals can be made—better deals.” Keppler smiled. “I see you as a smart man with an eye to the future—a money-rich future.”

  Bolan allowed the Beretta’s muzzle to drop a couple of inches. He saw the shine of relief in Keppler’s eyes; the man was relaxing a little.

  “You suggesting some kind of deal?”

  Keppler swallowed more of his whiskey, cleared his throat.

  “We could work something out. Leo Marchinski has a reputation as a good employer. He treats his people well.”

  Bolan made a point of gazing around the office.

  “I can see that. Pretty sharp place you have.”

  “Like I said. Marchinski pays for the best.”

  The Beretta was pointing at the floor now.

  “I hope he’s getting his money’s worth these days.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The man is behind bars and likely looking at a hell of a stretch.”

  “Wheels are in motion.”

  “Legal wheels? Let’s hope they stay on track. From what I’ve been hearing, Leopold Marchinski was caught in the act. You’re a good lawyer, Keppler, but even you’re going to find it hard to talk your client free.”

  “You seem to know a lot.”

  “In my line of work, keeping up with events is important.”

  Bolan made a show of returning the Beretta to his shoulder holster, smoothing the line of his suit jacket to conceal the weapon.

  Keppler stared down at the amber liquid in his tumbler and swirled it around.

  “I’m wondering how much you know that you aren’t telling me.”

  “I do my homework, counselor. I like to know what I’m walking in on before I commit.”

  “You think you know everything about Marchinski’s organization?”

  “I can see it’s struggling to pull Leopold Marchinski out of a cell—so desperate, it paints a target on itself by snatching the prosecutor’s kid.”

  Keppler didn’t answer, but Bolan didn’t miss the way his face paled at the mention of Abby Mason.

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s a good play. Let’s hope it comes off. Kidnapping is a risky deal and from where I’m standing, you’re just as guilty.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Hell, no. It’s just that law-enforcement agencies have a tendency to get all righteous about kidnapping—especially kids. But being a qualified lawyer, I’m sure you advised your client against it.”

  “Of course I did. I had to make him realize what he was getting into here.”

  “And Leo just sat back and ignored what you said.”

  “He said to go ahead and do it.”

  “The act of a desperate man.”

  Keppler made no comment.

  “What about Sabaroff? Was he on board?”

  “He’ll be loyal as long as the possibility exists that Leo might get away with the scheme. If Sabaroff realizes it isn’t going to happen, he’ll be the first in line for the king’s seat.”

  “You let him know it’s a losing scheme?”

  “If you knew Sabaroff, you’d realize he doesn’t take kindly to being lectured. He’s a hard man. That’s why he’s Leo Marchinski’s top aide. Gregor may be Leo’s brother, but he doesn’t have the Marchinski touch. Sabaroff is the guiding hand.” Keppler took a breath. “If Leo doesn’t get out of prison, the new boss won’t be Gregor. Sabaroff will step in without hesitation.”

  Bola
n digested the statement.

  If it was true, Sabaroff would be directing operations, with Gregor doing low-level stuff just to maintain the Marchinski image.

  “Sabaroff takes over if Leo falls,” Bolan said. “Betrayed by his closest lieutenant. It sounds very Shakespearian.”

  “I learned early on that looking out for yourself is more important than misguided loyalty. Leo had a good run, but things come to an end, and if you take your eye off the ball...”

  “You could go down with the sinking ship.”

  “Unless you switch sides before it happens.” Keppler managed a slight shrug of his expensively clothed shoulders. “A change of management.”

  “Counselor, you give new meaning to the phrase keeping it in the family.”

  “I’ve seen Leo turn on people who’ve been with him for a long time. Jake Bixby was an employee for years and Leo killed him without turning a hair. When Leo told me about kidnapping Larry Mason’s daughter, I knew he was making another mistake. I said I wasn’t sure it would work, but that was as far as I went. It wouldn’t have been wise to tell Leo Marchinski he was doing something stupid. Hell, I thought about it, but then I recalled that baseball bat with Bixby’s brains on it.” Keppler forced a smile. “I realized how easily that could happen to me.”

  “So you stepped back and watched. Let the game play out.”

  “In a manner of speaking. I had to let the dust settle so I could make a calculated choice.”

  “Leo or Sabaroff.”

  “I enjoy my life,” Keppler said. “A change in leadership would let me maintain my lifestyle. If that makes me cynical, I can live with it.”

  “With that in mind, I won’t be turning my back on you any time soon.”

  “Should I care? You haven’t come to my office out of charity. Let’s say I offered you information that might advance your cause. Would you be interested?”

  “Go on.”

  “If the girl was taken away from where she’s being held, Leo would lose his influence over Mason.”