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  The MP5 crackled briefly, the burn of 9 mm slugs causing the man to gasp as he fell back against the side of the house, letting go of his pistol as he slid to the ground.

  Bolan didn’t hesitate before moving on. He never took pleasure in staring at the dead. He did what he needed to do and walked away.

  Behind him, the Marchinski house burned with a growing fury—a cleansing flame that would bring the building to the ground and leave nothing but a pile of ashes.

  The trees and bushes closed around Bolan as he tramped through them. He retraced his unhurried steps until he finally reached the Suburban. Taking the remote from a side pocket, he unlocked the tailgate. Bolan removed his weapons and placed them inside the bag resting on the trunk floor. Then he quickly peeled off the blacksuit and replaced it with civilian clothing. Light gray slacks and a white shirt. He slipped into a leather jacket and closed the tailgate. He had retained the 93R and placed it in the glove box once he was behind the wheel.

  Bolan fired up the powerful motor, eased into gear and reversed the big SUV. He followed a narrow trail that would allow him to rejoin the highway after a few miles.

  Once he had an opening, Bolan rolled onto the tarmac, turning in the direction of the city. He flicked on his lights, settling into a steady speed. In the first couple of miles, he saw no other traffic.

  When he glanced into the rearview mirror, he made out the orange shading of the sky from the distant fire.

  The police and fire department would be called to the scene very soon, but by then he would be well clear of the area.

  It had been a successful operation—in and out with the minimum of distractions.

  Engagement.

  Dispersal.

  Retreat.

  A Bolan Blitz.

  * * *

  BOLAN PARKED UP at a truck stop and made his call to Stony Man. Hal Brognola picked up.

  “Been waiting for your call,” the big Fed said. “Mission accomplished?”

  “Half of it,” Bolan replied. “I’m on my way to tie the rest down.”

  “How’re you doing, pal?”

  “I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  “Busy few days?”

  “You could say.”

  “Your new best friend is back home. Thought I’d let you know.”

  Bolan managed a weary smile at that news.

  “Makes it all worthwhile, then. She’s a remarkable young lady.”

  “Striker, all she could talk about was her feat of jumping out of a moving car and hiding in the bushes.”

  “And Larry?”

  “He said to tell you he wants to shake your hand until your arm drops off. You did what you promised, Striker. Larry will never forget it.”

  “Glad to be of help.”

  “One more thing he told me. He can’t wait to visit Leo Marchinski and let him know there’s no way he’ll be walking out of jail. It’ll be the icing on the cake.” There was a brief pause. “You’ve got my thanks, too, Striker. That little girl is special to me. I won’t forget what you’ve done.”

  “No problem. Is there any update on the Tsvetanov crew?”

  “Nothing we can add. You know as much about them as we do. They don’t appear to have a redeeming quality about them.”

  “I’ll tell them what you said when I meet them.”

  “You come home safe, Striker.”

  Bolan shut down the call. He guided the SUV across the parking lot and onto the highway. When he checked the sat-nav display, Bolan saw it would take him directly to the Tsvetanov home base and another killing ground.

  Chapter 24

  Tsvetanov Base, Trenton

  Lexi Bulin found Tsvetanov in the main office of the warehouse complex. Bulin had a look on his face that told the crime boss this was not an interruption he was going to enjoy.

  “You’ll want to hear this,” Bulin said.

  “If it’s about the Marchinskis, I doubt it. Those bastards have done enough to us over the past few days.”

  “I just had word that the Marchinski organization has been blown apart. Somebody hit a safe house and killed Gregor Marchinski. Then Marchinski’s house was burned to the ground. Most of his top guys are dead—including Sabaroff.”

  “Who did this? I’d like to give him a medal.”

  “You might not when I tell you what I’m thinking.”

  Tsvetanov put down the stack of bills he’d been checking.

  “No games, Lexi. What’s on your mind?”

  “This started when we were hit earlier. Then the Marchinskis took a loss. We figured they hit us, and they must have thought we hit them. Now somebody snatched the kid the Marchinskis kidnapped. That definitely didn’t come from us. It’s all too convenient, like it’s been staged to cause a war between us and the Marchinskis.”

  “And we didn’t take down the Marchinski house,” Tsvetanov admitted. “So who the hell is stirring the pot?”

  “None of these hits shouts cops. Much as they’d like to, police don’t come on like a squad of Rambo clones.”

  “So what do we have? Some guy playing vigilante?”

  “If he is, the mother has one hell of an arsenal.”

  “Have you spoken to our sources?”

  Bulin nodded. “Nothing. There are no hints of covert ops from any department.”

  “So we’re looking at a fresh player trying to clear the way for a new organization?” Tsvetanov slammed his fist against the desktop. “Svoloch. We find him. I want him here so I can cut him into little pieces.”

  Tsvetanov slammed his clenched fist down again.

  The thud was followed by a sudden, distant crackle of auto fire. Angry voices called out in alarm.

  “What the hell is that?” Tsvetanov yelled.

  “I have a feeling we have a visitor...” Bulin said. “Uninvited.”

  * * *

  THE SAT NAV had led Bolan directly to the warehouse compound. It stood behind a rusting steel fence with weeds sprouting between the cracks in the concrete apron. A trio of new vehicles was parked in front of a line of gray uninspiring buildings.

  The rain slanting out of the dark sky only added to the depressing isolation of the area.

  A man lounged against the side of one black 4x4. He glanced up when Bolan’s Suburban sped in through the open entrance, headlights blazing.

  Bolan’s mood allowed for no compromise. With the Marchinski organization in tatters, he wanted an end to the whole affair.

  The man snatched an auto pistol from his belt and opened fire. Only one bullet found a target, the slug clipping the edge of the Chevy’s roof.

  Bolan planted his foot down on the gas pedal, sending the big vehicle in a short curve. The shooter tried to step back, but he was too slow. The front of the speeding vehicle lifted him off his feet, spinning him over the hood. The thump of the hard impact was lost in the roar of the engine. The man’s body was tossed in the air, turning over and over before it hit the concrete. He slammed down hard, one leg twisted beneath his body as bone snapped. Blood pooled beneath his shattered skull.

  Jamming on the brakes, Bolan brought the Suburban to a rubber-scorching halt, shoving open his door and exiting the rocking vehicle. He wore his blacksuit again, with a combat harness in place. He carried his Desert Eagle on his right hip, the Beretta in his shoulder rig and he was wielding a fully loaded MP5. The 30-round magazine had a second unit taped in place, providing an additional 30-round capacity.

  He went directly to the wooden access door, slamming a booted foot against the weathered wood. The door crashed in, and Bolan breached the entrance, going in fast and swerving to one side as he entered the warehouse.

  The interior was deep and wide, the floor space heavily stacked with goods. The piled carton
s vied for space with a number of brand-new, expensive cars and SUVs; the vehicles were still in factory condition, with protective tapes on windows and headlamps; none of them had any license plates.

  Bolan took a spot behind a gleaming Cadillac, his eyes scanning the interior of the warehouse. He spotted movement near the partitioned office section to his right. Raised voices echoed through the building.

  A pair of armed figures appeared from behind high stacks of cartons. They were moving in Bolan’s general direction.

  The Executioner had no intention of allowing them to get close. He leaned out from his crouching position, the muzzle of the MP5 tracking the movement of the two shooters.

  He dropped the closest man with a short burst from the H&K, and the shooter went down with a harsh screech, flopping around on the concrete floor. His partner opened fire on Bolan’s position, a prolonged burst of auto fire that punched ragged holes through the expensive bodywork of the Cadillac, instantly lowering its market value.

  Bolan stayed low, swinging his MP5 to follow the man’s advance. He fired off a long burst that hammered at the shooter’s midsection. The man went up on his toes, the SMG in his hands sending slugs at the roofline. His torn body stiffened, and he toppled heavily on his back, kicking at the concrete floor.

  Farther in the building, Bolan picked up the sound of agitated voices. He caught a glimpse of moving figures, bobbing back and forth in the shadows. Bolan plucked a fragmentation grenade from his harness, drew the pin and lobbed the projectile over the roofs of the parked vehicles. It exploded with an echoing thump. Men screamed as they were riddled by metal fragments. One man was lifted off his feet and bounced off the side of a car. Bolan took two more grenades and deployed them. One skittered across the floor and slid beneath one of the parked SUVs, the explosion lifting the heavy car off the floor, the blast puncturing the fuel tank. An oily ball of flame rolled across the area. Bolan heard the second grenade burn. The concussion shattered vehicle windows and ripped open the expensive bodywork. Following the final explosion, a second fuel tank blew, throwing fiery tendrils across the parked vehicles. The whole building was going to burn down.

  * * *

  LEXI BULIN DREW his 9 mm SIG. Even as he closed his fingers around the grips, he could feel his sweat, greasy against the plastic.

  The auto fire echoing around the warehouse made him feel sick. Flames from the demolished cars were spreading across the building, reaching the roof in some areas. Smoke was starting to build up. This was a situation he had never been in before. He was an organizer, not a shooter; the closest he came to using a gun was on the firing range.

  He glanced across at Tsvetanov. The man had a shotgun in his hands and was racking a shell into the breach.

  “He wants to take me on, I’m ready. No asshole gets the better of Drago Tsvetanov in his own house.”

  He kicked a chair out of his way and crossed the office, yanking the door wide and bracing himself in the opening.

  “Show yourself!”

  * * *

  THE BLACK-CLAD FIGURE appeared out of the gloom, backlit by the blaze consuming the building. He was moving fast so that Tsvetanov had no chance to set him in his sights. All Tsvetanov saw was the dull gleam of the man’s weapon. That view lasted for no more than a couple of seconds.

  The SMG fired, a prolonged burst that flickered with flame from the muzzle. Drago Tsvetanov felt the solid impact of the 9 mm slugs as they tore into him. He felt no initial pain, only the driving force that pushed him back against the office door. Glass shattered. Tsvetanov hung there for a few seconds then slid to a sitting position. The pain hit him then, his body leaking blood from the multiple wounds. He choked on blood, slipping forward until his curled body lay facedown on the cold floor.

  * * *

  AS BOLAN STEPPED FORWARD, he caught movement inside the office as Lexi Bulin edged toward the exit, still carrying the SIG. He had to have seen what happened to Tsvetanov.

  The sight of the black-clad figure, favoring an MP5, was enough to dissuade Lexi Bulin from doing anything foolish.

  He stepped over Tsvetanov’s bloody corpse and held his pistol in a nonaggressive position.

  “I quit,” he said. “I’m done...”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Bolan replied.

  Bulin narrowed his eyes, and his hand tightened its grip on the SIG.

  * * *

  THE H&K CRACKLED. Bulin’s body erupted in a series of bloody holes as the long burst shredded his torso. He fell back over Tsvetanov’s body, halfway inside the office.

  Bolan walked away, pausing briefly to activate a thermite grenade on the closest stack of contraband goods. The fiery hunger from the relentless chemical reaction would make certain nothing was left of the illicit goods. He slipped out through the door and climbed into his SUV. Bolan swung the vehicle around and drove out of the compound. As he turned onto the service road, flames were already starting to show behind the streaked glass of the warehouse.

  Before he made the highway, Bolan parked to remove his assault gear and pull on a plain topcoat. With his weapons stored in the carry bag, Bolan pulled away and picked up the route that would take him to his motel.

  His mission was complete.

  The Marchinski and Tsvetanov mobs were out of business.

  Leo Marchinski would soon be receiving the news that his get-out-of-jail-free ticket had been canceled.

  Larry Mason would enjoy delivering that message. Not as much as he would enjoy arriving home to find that his daughter had been returned safe and well.

  Epilogue

  The media had called the events between the Marchinski and Tsvetanov organizations an internecine clash. No one was about to correct that statement—especially not Mack Bolan or Stony Man.

  Since the conclusion of Bolan’s involvement, there had been a major scuffle to reorganize from both sides. In the end, little came of it. Too much internal damage had been done. As a result of the takedown, police and FBI had concentrated on the survivors, pulling a number of them off the streets in various locations. Coupled with information retrieved from the former main residences, names came to light, revealing sources feeding the organizations. There were some surprises when these names were revealed. Arrests followed, confessions began and bargains were demanded.

  The bodies of Nancy Cleland and Harry Jigs were finally laid to rest.

  For Bolan and Brognola, the highlight was the return of Abby Mason to her father.

  A brief meeting was arranged between Bolan and the Masons. Brognola showed up, as well.

  Abby, back in the safety of her home, showed little trauma from her ordeal. She had hugged Brognola and then turned to Bolan.

  “I’ve been practicing my shoulder rolls,” she announced.

  “Why’s that?” Bolan asked.

  “Because when I grow up, I want to be just like you—one of the good guys.”

  Those few words, delivered with childlike solemnity, advised Mack Bolan that he was still on the side of the angels.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460340905

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

  Maximum Chaos

  Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library

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