Maximum Chaos Read online

  “Tell Mason I’m bringing his girl home.”

  “Anything else you need to tell me?”

  Bolan gave him their location. “Send in local P.D. and a fire truck.”

  “Sounds bad.”

  “Only for the Marchinski crew I left behind.”

  Bolan climbed behind the wheel of the SUV. He passed the cell to Abby.

  “Say hello to Uncle Hal.”

  While she spoke to her godfather, he placed the Desert Eagle, his holsters and knife in the small bag behind his seat. The Beretta went into the glove box where he could get at it quickly if it was needed.

  “I hope Matt doesn’t ask me to jump out of the car again. That was scary but fun, I guess.”

  “You made her jump out of the car?” Brognola queried when Bolan took the cell.

  “The situation called for drastic action.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “The way she’s shaping up, you should recruit her in around ten years.”

  “I’m not sure her dad would approve.”

  Bolan signed off and put the cell away. He drove back to the main highway and turned the SUV toward the city.

  A few minutes later, Bolan glanced at Abby and realized she had fallen asleep. He saw no reason to wake her. She’d been through a lot—a hell of a lot—but she was young, and given time and love, she would be able to put it behind her. He hoped that would happen.

  Bolan thought about Larry Mason. With his daughter safe, the man could concentrate on making sure Leopold Marchinski stayed where he was. The mobster’s plan had backfired, the threat was neutralized and Bolan was set to complete his takedown of the Marchinski and Tsvetanov organizations.

  His upcoming strikes would reduce them both to tatters, hopefully destroying their power bases and scattering the survivors. But that would only begin once he had returned Abby Mason to her anxious father. That would be a moment to treasure.

  Chapter 22

  Marchinski Residence

  Bolan watched and waited, focusing on the Marchinski mansion. His whole being was centered on what lay ahead.

  The Executioner was about to drive home the last nail in the Marchinski coffin. He was going to take down what was left of the organization in an Executioner hard strike.

  There would be no kind of negotiation.

  No sweetheart deals.

  No surrender.

  This was meat for the Executioner’s grinder—taking down the dealers in death and misery, those who preyed on the weak. They had no respect for life. They poisoned and destroyed. If they had a god, it was money. To appease their greed, these men stole and manipulated.

  If they were not removed from society, Marchinski and Tsvetanov would simply continue to plunder and corrupt.

  There was no halfway solution. These criminals had placed themselves in his sights—and Mack Bolan was willing and able to pull the trigger, however many times it was needed.

  When the news reached Leo Marchinski in his eight-by-eight cell, the mob boss would fully understand what zero tolerance meant. His epitaph would be written in the blood of his underlings....

  * * *

  THE SPRAWLING HOUSE stood in carefully tended grounds, which were surrounded by a stone wall. At the rear of the ten-bedroom, two-story building, a wide stone patio reached out to encompass a large swimming pool. Beyond that was a professional tennis court. Once the electronically controlled gates were opened, a long drive led from the road to the house and a paved semicircular parking area, which was large enough to accommodate at least a dozen cars.

  Five expensive vehicles had been parked after delivering men from the Marchinski inner circle, who’d been gathered for a meeting by Lazlo Sabaroff.

  With Gregor dead and Leo’s hopes of escape ruined, Sabaroff had assumed control of the organization. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.

  Sabaroff sat down behind Leo Marchinski’s desk, allowing himself a smile as he sank into the soft, comfortable leather. He placed his hands flat on the polished surface, drumming his thick fingers, and gave a satisfied sigh.

  Sabaroff sensed someone standing just outside the open door to Marchinski’s office. He glanced up and recognized Keppler. The lawyer stepped inside, making a small gesture with his hands.

  “It fits,” he said.

  “Close the door,” Sabaroff replied.

  Keppler obliged then crossed the expanse of thick carpet. He took the seat Sabaroff waved him into.

  “Day one,” Sabaroff said. “New management.”

  He watched Keppler’s expression...saw him realize what Sabaroff meant.

  “There’s a great deal we need to discuss,” Keppler said. “But personally, I believe the main concern is still the Tsvetanov problem. Once they become aware Leo isn’t coming back...”

  “They might very well step up their opposition,” Sabaroff said. “Exactly what I’ve been thinking.”

  “So we have to decide which way to handle it. Do we hit them hard, or do we negotiate?”

  Sabaroff leaned forward, a slow smile forming as he took in Keppler’s suggestions.

  “Leo would hit them with everything at his disposal. That was his way. The trouble is that would lead to prolonged war. We’ve had a bellyful of that already, and we’ve lost a number of good men. Add that to the mess at the safe house. Dead bodies all over, and we still don’t know who snatched Mason’s brat.”

  “There’s been nothing from any of our contacts?”

  “We can’t find out a damn thing. If he’s an undercover cop, he’s really undercover. No one knows where he came from or where he’s gone.”

  “Lazlo, don’t shoot me when I say it, but the man was good.”

  Sabaroff waved a dismissal.

  “Don’t remind me. We need to look forward, to focus on how we keep this organization from falling apart.” Sabaroff took a moment. “I still don’t figure how he found out about the safe house.”

  Keppler steeled himself. He’d expected the question to come up. “The man was smart. He made all the right moves, Lazlo.”

  “Damn right,” Sabaroff said. “So we need to move on.”

  “Seems you have that well in hand,” Keppler said. “Right now I have only one question. How do we handle Leo?”

  “I’d have to say with everything that’s just happened, we’re going to find it hard to concentrate on his defense. Wouldn’t you agree, counselor?”

  Keppler’s thin smile was instantaneous.

  “We have no arguments left to offer,” he said. “And now the girl has been freed so Mason has no reason to acquiesce to our demands.”

  “Well, my friend, it seems we’re at a stalemate. Leo will have to take his chances with the law.”

  “That would be my advice.”

  “Which I accept.”

  Sabaroff rose to his feet and crossed to the wet bar, where he poured two generous whiskies. He handed one to Keppler. They drank in satisfied silence.

  “As legal counsel for the organization,” Sabaroff said, “you should be present for this meeting.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need, Mr. Sabaroff.”

  Sabaroff picked up the internal phone.

  “Bring them in, Petre.”

  * * *

  WHEN THE DOOR was opened and the six men were ushered into the office, Sabaroff had resumed his seat behind the desk, with Keppler at his side.

  “Sit down,” Sabaroff said.

  He waited until the group was seated. The man who had escorted them in, Petre, stood to one side until Sabaroff caught his eye.

  “Would you get everyone a drink, Petre?”

  While this was being arranged, Sabaroff faced his audience.

  “By now we all know what has happe
ned. The safe house was attacked. Gregor was killed and the girl we were holding has been removed from our care. Which means the arrangement we were negotiating with Mason has been closed. Leo will not receive his get-out-of-jail-free pass. I have discussed this with Mr. Keppler, and unless divine intervention occurs, Leo is going to be found guilty. As his second in command, I have stepped in, and I now take control.” Sabaroff paused for his pronouncement to be absorbed by the group. “If anyone would like to challenge my decision, by all means speak up. We are, after all, in America—the land of free speech and democracy.”

  A faint, almost subliminal murmur sounded. Quick glances flashed between the men, and some of them shuffled their feet. While this was taking place, Petre was moving around the room, passing out glasses of expensive whiskey.

  “Lazlo—Mr. Sabaroff—is better placed to lead than anyone in this room,” Keppler said quickly. “He has been SIC for a long time. He understands the complexities of running an organization like ours. We can’t forget that he has been responsible for handling most of the day-to-day business. Right now we need to stand together against the Tsvetanov threat. We must also be able to fulfill current contracts and keep our operations running smoothly.”

  “It’s that or go bust,” Sabaroff said. “Anything we allow to slide, the Tsvetanovs will snatch away. We don’t let that happen.”

  “What if they don’t back away?” one of the men asked.

  “We make them.” Sabaroff smiled. “You haven’t forgotten how to do that, have you?”

  That brought a brief rumble of approval—even a little nervous laughter.

  “We stay focused,” Sabaroff said. “We keep the ball rolling. If we do that, there are still good days ahead. Days we can all profit by.”

  The final statement drew them in. Watching the men, Sabaroff smiled briefly. He had them in his grasp now. It was going to be okay.

  Chapter 23

  From the first day of his War Everlasting, Mack Bolan had set his rules. No mercy for the unjust. Those who had no mercy for the innocent would not receive any from Bolan.

  As he crouched in the early-evening shadows, the trees that bordered the property behind him, Bolan watched the house and assessed his moves. He had already counted at least four guards patrolling the grounds and watching for unwelcome visitors. The attack on the safe house had proved to them they were far from safe. So these moving targets would be ready and waiting.

  He wore the holstered Beretta 93R and Desert Eagle. A knife was strapped to his thigh and a 9 mm Uzi hung from a neck strap. Bolan cradled an MP5 in his hands. His combat harness held additional magazines for each weapon. Slung across his back was an M32 MGL. The Milkor Multiple Grenade Launcher carried a six-load cylinder that could take 40 mm grenades in various categories; Bolan had two M406 HE loads, followed by M680 Smoke, and a final pair of M576 buckshot rounds. He also carried a number of thermite grenades in his combat harness.

  The two front sentries started to talk, their attention slackening. Bolan eased forward to give himself a clear area. He raised the M32 and calculated the distance to the grouped vehicles.

  Bolan tripped the trigger, sending the first HE grenade on its arc. He shifted the launcher and fired the second M406 high-explosive round.

  The dull thump of the grenades landing was followed by a burst of flame and smoke. The targets were rocked by the blasts, the expanding fireballs hitting the vehicles close by. Fuel tanks burst and spilled flaming gasoline. The detonations galvanized the sentries into a reaction.

  By this time, Bolan had the grenade launcher dangling by its strap as he brought the Uzi into play, stepping out of the gloom. His opening bursts caught the pair of sentries as they pulled out their own SMGs. They were too late. Bolan hit them hard and with an accuracy they could never have matched. As the 9 mm slugs ripped into their bodies, the pair was knocked off their feet, unfired weapons slipping from loose fingers. The pair was still falling when a third shooter appeared from the side of the house. He lost precious seconds as he took in the blazing, wrecked cars and two of his buddies down on the ground.

  Those seconds were his last as Bolan tracked in with the Uzi and hit him with a burst. The slugs shattered his ribs as they cut into his body and punched through to his heart and lungs. The man crumpled without a sound, facedown on the hard ground.

  Bolan had been moving forward as he triggered the burst, and now he let the Uzi dangle as he switched back to the MGL. He aimed at the main window fronting the house and laid down an M680 smoke grenade. It smashed through the glass and dropped inside. Bolan moved across the frontage, going for the other main window and repeating the action. As the second window shattered, thick white smoke was already expanding through the first room.

  Swinging the MGL out of the way, Bolan raised the Uzi again as he made for the house. He picked up movement off his left and saw the fourth outside sentry moving to intercept. The man opened up with his SMG. Bolan paused in midstride and unleashed a long burst from the Uzi. His shots hit the sentry midthigh. The man grunted and folded at the knees, dropping into the path of Bolan’s follow-up shots. They slammed into his upper chest and clipped his throat. The guy went down with a fountain of blood erupting from his torn throat.

  Turning back toward the house, Bolan saw the front doors swing inward. Some thin tendrils of smoke whipped out, briefly curling around the pair of armed figures rushing from the entrance. Bolan dropped to one knee and hauled the M32 launcher into play. He fired the first of his M576 buckshot rounds at the pair. The short range kept the spread close, but the shot found targets in both men moving at Bolan. Twenty #4 shot pellets hit the men hard, tearing at them with brutal force. They fell as Bolan walked by them into the entrance hall. He left them lying in their own blood and viscera.

  Smoke was coming through the doors on Bolan’s left and right. A wide staircase lay straight ahead. Bolan heard yelling voices interspersed by choking coughs. He moved toward the doors and crouched with his back against the closest wall.

  He pushed out the empty shell casing from the M32 and reloaded, then he pulled out a couple of thermite grenades. He pulled the first pin and lobbed the canister onto the upper landing. Bolan tossed the second grenade along the passage, toward the rear of the house.

  A door crashed open, and coughing figures stumbled into the hall, bringing white smoke with them. Despite being barely able to see, their eyes reddened and streaming tears, every man carried a weapon.

  Except one.

  Stumbling in the smoke, his usually cool demeanor lost in the frantic flight, Jason Keppler was jostled and pushed by the others. His legal brain gave him no comfort right now. Whatever trickery he employed within the hushed confines of the courtroom meant nothing here. He was just another member of the Marchinski mob, a high-priced mouthpiece who minutes earlier had been congratulating himself on maneuvering his own career in a new direction.

  His future prospects faded into the background amid the yelling and general confusion, and Jason Keppler became just another criminal about to fall at the hands of Mack Bolan, the Executioner.

  Bolan turned the M32 in their direction and pumped off two shots. The buckshot pellets shredded expensive suits and vulnerable flesh. The men tumbled back, yelling, screaming, their blood spattering the wall and door.

  The opposite door was wrenched open. Three gasping members of the Marchinski organization blundered into view, thick smoke crowding behind them. Bolan swung the grenade launcher around and triggered one of his two remaining buckshot rounds at targets no more than six feet from where he crouched.

  In an explosion of blood, torn flesh and shredded clothing, the men were knocked sideways, torn limbs unable to hold them upright any longer.

  Even in the blur of the moment, Bolan recognized the last man out of the room.

  Lazlo Sabaroff, Leo Marchinski’s SIC. The man clutched an auto pisto
l in his hand, rubbing tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his expensive suit.

  “Son of a bitch,” Sabaroff screamed when he spotted Bolan’s black-clad form. “You think this will end here? Dragomir is wrong...”

  He put out his gun arm, finger pulling back on the trigger.

  Bolan’s MGL fired first, spitting out a lethal load of buckshot that caught Sabaroff in the gut, the concentrated, short-range spread tearing him open and almost severing his torso in half. Sabaroff dropped, mouth gaping in a pain-filled moment that rendered him silent.

  At the head of the wide staircase the thermite canister had erupted, the contents creating an incandescent blaze that was spreading along the timber floor and into the rooms on the second floor. The second thermite grenade was already spreading its powerful and hungry burn down the passage. The high percentage of wood in the house’s construction would feed the fire as it spread through the building.

  Bolan heard a sudden dull thump as one of the stricken cars out front gave up its fuel tank. Seconds later, another tank blew.

  Bolan slung the MGL across his back again and switched to the MP5 as he made for the exit. When he stepped through the front door, he saw that the parked cars were still engulfed in heavy flame. Burning gasoline had been thrown in a wide arc from the burst tanks. Paintwork was blistering and cracking. Tires bubbled and threw out dense black smoke. Bolan heard window glass splintering under the high temperature. The whole area was taking on the appearance of a war zone.

  Bolan turned away and headed back to his ingress point and the SUV he’d left a half mile back.

  As Bolan cleared the end of the house, flames starting to glow behind the upstairs windows, movement caught his attention. He brought the MP5 on line as he made out a figure struggling from one of the ground-level side windows. The man dropped heavily to the ground, frantically slapping at his smoldering clothing. Even his hair was smoking from the heat he’d just escaped. He struggled out of his scorching jacket, throwing it aside, and his head half turned. He came face-to-face with Bolan and took in the heavily armed, black-clad figure. He made the connection, cursing loudly. His right hand snatched at the big auto pistol in the shoulder rig he was wearing, yanking the weapon free and swinging the muzzle at Bolan.