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  The Executioner wore black clothing complemented by a pair of grip-soled ankle boots. Beneath his soft leather jacket he carried the suppressed Beretta 93R with an extended magazine for extra firepower. He had a keen-bladed lock knife in one of the pockets of the jacket.

  The soldier didn’t yet know the strength of his enemy. Nor did he have any idea of their abilities—not the most advisable way of walking into the enemy camp. But Bolan was running out of time, and the life of a child was at stake—he had no choice but to take a calculated risk.

  Bolan locked the Suburban and moved to the weak section of fence that he’d spotted on approach. The sagging wire allowed him to slip through easily. Bolan moved quickly to press up against the blank end wall of the warehouse. He unleathered the 93R, removing the machine pistol from under his jacket and easing the selector to single shot.

  After scanning the area, Bolan chose to make his way around to the rear; the ground was strewn with debris, and there was nothing beyond the fence but a steep, weed-choked bank. Stepping carefully to avoid kicking any loose debris, Bolan moved across the face of the building until he reached a service door that stood partway open. He could hear muted voices beyond the door, telling him someone was home.

  Bolan slipped through the door and crouched in the shadows. The interior was gloomy, the medium-sized storage building half-full of stacked cardboard cartons. Along the wall to Bolan’s right was a partitioned office with three men inside. As Bolan worked his way through the stacked cartons, the voices increased in volume and the men waved their arms through the coils of cigarette smoke floating around their heads.

  One of the men in the office turned and snatched open the door. He leaned out and yelled at a fourth man.

  “Hey, shithead, go and secure that back door. It’s time we moved...”

  The office door slammed shut.

  A lean figure emerged from the shadows just beyond where Bolan crouched. The guy was armed with an SMG and had an auto pistol jammed into his belt. He was muttering to himself as he headed toward the door.

  Bolan waited until the last possible moment before rising from cover. He slammed the hard edge of his left hand into the gunman’s throat just beneath his jaw. The blow crunched home. The man dropped his SMG, clutching his throat with both hands, eyes staring wildly. He started to make choking sounds as he tried—and failed—to suck air into his crushed windpipe. The man dropped to his knees as Bolan stepped around him and opened one of the cartons.

  Bolan was not surprised to find the carton stacked with porn DVDs. He checked a few of the cases and found that it was material of the worst kind. Bolan looked at the rows of cartons and envisaged the total number of DVDs. According to Harry Jigs, the Tsvetanov organization was engaged in this sordid trade just as Marchinski was—both mobs appeared to be working the converging markets.

  Bolan failed to suppress a grin when he realized the potential here. He could play one group against the other. When Bolan checked other cartons, he found plastic bags full of white powder; Bolan split one of the bags and checked the contents; he dipped a finger in the powder and tasted it—cocaine. Bolan spit out the trace.

  Bolan snatched up the fallen gunman’s SMG and checked the magazine; the weapon was an Uzi chambered for 9 mm Parabellum. The Israeli weapon had been around for a long time, and Mack Bolan was extremely familiar with it. The solid design of the weapon, with its blowback operation, had delivered Executioner justice to many of Bolan’s enemies.

  His mind lingered briefly on the origin of the name Parabellum. Taken from the Latin Si Vis Pacem Para Bellum—If you seek peace, prepare for war—the phrase was close to Bolan’s heart. It was something he understood and practiced.

  Bolan sheathed the Beretta and headed for the office. The argument was still raging, and now that he was closer, Bolan realized the men were speaking in Russian. He had a reasonable grasp of the language and made out they were in a dispute over who was responsible for the final distribution of the goods. The confusion suited Bolan. The men would be distracted, and that gave him the advantage.

  He moved along the length of the office, ducking briefly until he cleared the window then rising to his full height as he reached the door. Bolan slammed his boot against the flimsy door and it crashed open against the inside wall, the glass panel shattering.

  Three startled figures spun around to face the intruder, hands sliding under their coats to grasp holstered weapons.

  “Who the hell are you?” one guy snapped in English.

  “Not good news,” Bolan said. “Leave the guns alone.”

  “Screw you,” the guy yelled, drawing his auto pistol.

  Bolan’s finger stroked the Uzi’s trigger and laid a burst that hammered 9 mm slugs into the mobster’s chest. The rounds blew out his back, taking flesh and spinal bone with them. He was propelled across the small office, slamming into the far wall. An expression of disbelief showed on his face as he tumbled to the floor, weapon slipping from numbed fingers. Blood oozed from the spread of holes in his torso.

  Shocked as they seemed by the sudden eruption of violence, the other two still pulled their own weapons.

  Bolan had no qualms about responding to the threat. He triggered the Uzi, his burst hitting both would-be shooters at close range, 9 mm slugs ripping into them. The men were put down instantly, bodies torn and bloody.

  Bolan held the Uzi on line as he gathered fallen weapons and threw them out the office door and across the warehouse. Checking the men, he found one still alive. The mobster had caught Bolan’s slugs in his right side and shoulder, which were torn and bloody now, splintered bone gleaming white in the mangled flesh. The man stared up at Bolan, his eyes holding a murderous gleam.

  “You won’t get away with this,” he said.

  “I seem to be doing okay right now. I’m not lying on the floor with bullets in me. You want to reconsider that last statement?”

  The man clutched at his body, sucking ragged breaths in through his mouth.

  “What are you? Cop? DEA?”

  “Nothing so fancy. I’m just a working stiff like you—doing my job—which today is cutting down the opposition.”

  The man dragged himself up so he could lean against a wooden desk. He studied Bolan’s expressionless face, looking for answers.

  “Opposition? What opposition? Damn it...you work for Marchinski?”

  “You’re a bright boy. Work it out. It’s time to shorten the odds.”

  “Tsvetanov will kill you for this. He’ll tear off your fucking head.”

  “Just tell him this is only the start,” Bolan said. “Tell him to pull up the drawbridge and back off, or he’ll get to see what else we have for him.”

  Bolan ran a quick search and retrieved two cell phones from the dead men. He searched the wounded guy and located his.

  “Wouldn’t want you calling home just yet,” Bolan said.

  “What else you got to do?”

  “Waiting to see is where the fun comes in.”

  Bolan hauled the man to his feet and half dragged him outside. He pushed the mobster onto the front seat of one of the cars. From his back pocket Bolan produced plastic ties. He looped one of the ties around the guy’s wrist and secured him to the steering wheel.

  “Hey, you shot me. I’m hurting here.”

  “That so?”

  Bolan pulled the lock knife from its sheath, opened the blade and methodically punctured tires on the two parked cars. Then he followed the line of the warehouse and slipped out through the fence. He opened his SUV and unzipped the heavy carryall. Bolan took out a number of thermite grenades, courtesy of Stony Man’s armory, and returned to the warehouse through the deepening gloom.

  “What are you doing?” the man asked as Bolan walked back into sight.

  “Leaving a going-away gift for your boss.” He held u
p the thermite grenades so the mobster could see. “It’s about to get hot in there.”

  “You can’t destroy everything! You know how much that merchandise is worth?”

  “More than pocket change, but you’re going out of business so it won’t make much difference.”

  Bolan went back inside the warehouse. He planted the thermite grenades in among the stacked cartons, pulled the pins on each grenade and made a quick exit. As the Executioner stepped outside he heard the hiss of the grenades activating. Stark light filled the warehouse as the thermite compound began to burn, igniting Tsvetanov’s property. By the time the process was completed, there wouldn’t be much left.

  Bolan opened the car door and tossed a cell phone onto the mobster’s lap.

  “Now you can call home. Tell Tsvetanov we win round one.”

  The wounded man stared at Bolan. “I’ll remember you.”

  Bolan’s smile was predatory. “It’s always nice to be remembered,” he said and slammed the door.

  He made his way back to his SUV. Through the grimy upper windows of the warehouse, the interior pulsed with the white glare of the thermite discharges. Bolan didn’t give it a second glance. He dropped the Uzi onto the floor of the vehicle as he climbed in. Bolan started the engine and drove away slowly, without attracting any attention.

  The thermite burn would consume the whole warehouse, but by the time the blaze took hold, Bolan would be heading back to his motel.

  Chapter 5

  New York

  Dragomir Tsvetanov held his temper as his man recounted what had happened at the warehouse. Holding down his rage was a supreme effort—Tsvetanov had a reputation as a wild man when it came to controlling his moods. He admitted it was a failing, though sometimes anger had its uses. A raging tirade could help keep people in check.

  Today he understood the need to remain placid. He was trying to understand why Marchinski had determined that now was the time to strike out at his rival in business. The animosity between the organizations was always close to the surface, and Tsvetanov understood that it would one day erupt into violence.

  But why now?

  He imagined Marchinski would have enough to keep him occupied. The man was behind bars, awaiting his upcoming trial. Why would he start a war?

  Tsvetanov knew Leopold Marchinski still held the reins—he ran his organization from jail. His second in command—Leo’s younger brother, Gregor—would do exactly what he was told. Gregor Marchinski did not have the skill to take control of his brother’s affairs. Nor did he have the courage to attempt a coup.

  Maybe Marchinski was simply flexing his muscles. Showing that even if he was out of the game for the moment, he could still manage a hostile takeover. He had the manpower. The Marchinski organization employed a ruthless and experienced team. He understood the concept of dominance through superior strength. And he was never afraid to take risks. Marchinski had ambition, but he could also be greedy. Tsvetanov knew this because he held the same views and was never afraid to show his own power.

  He stopped pacing the length of his office, stood and looked out the window. The tended grounds, rain soaked and shrouded in the early-morning mist, helped calm him even more. Feeling settled, albeit briefly, Dragomir—how he hated his full name; he preferred to be called Drago—faced his assistant.

  “Why has Marchinski chosen this time to hit us?” he asked. “Have I missed something significant? A special date? Something I should have been aware of?”

  Lexi Bulin shook his head. “Marchinski decided this was the time, I guess.”

  Tsvetanov stared at the man from beneath a frowning brow. Bulin was smart enough. He seldom made flippant remarks. Tsvetanov sighed.

  “You really think it’s as simple as that?”

  “Drago, I am as confused as you. We’ve enjoyed a fairly amicable relationship with Marchinski. We left each other alone, yet neither trusts the other. We circle like hungry wolves. Perhaps Marchinski saw something in our organization that made him decide to strike.”

  “Or someone,” Tsvetanov suggested.

  “You think one of our people sold out?”

  Tsvetanov shrugged his broad shoulders. “Perhaps an offer was too good to refuse.”

  Bulin waved a slim hand. He was of average height, whip-thin with a lean, almost gaunt face. He wore his dark hair down to his collar and always dressed sharply in handmade suits. His mind worked quickly.

  “I would rather go with this being a preemptive strike by Marchinski. Not one of ours selling out.”

  “You trust them that much?”

  Bulin nodded. “Yes. I don’t believe they would betray you, Drago.”

  “Comforting to know.” Tsvetanov was silent for a moment. “Is Sergei going to be all right?”

  “Doctor Danton says he will live. He’s going to be indisposed for a few months.”

  “Good. A pity about the others. Three dead. One badly injured. A full consignment destroyed. That was a great deal of money, Lexi. And we have no idea who this man was?”

  “Sergei described him, but he doesn’t resemble anyone we know who works for Marchinski.”

  “An outside triggerman? It has to be. The man knew what he was doing. He came equipped for the job and he did it. He knew the location—just walked in and took our people down. He must have been primed by Marchinski’s men.”

  “Sergei said he was efficient. Didn’t miss a thing.”

  Tsvetanov walked around his desk and sank into the leather swivel chair. It was a large item of furniture—the most expensive chair he’d been able to get—but Tsvetanov was not dwarfed by it. He topped the six-foot-three mark and was solidly muscular. While Bulin always dressed formally, Tsvetanov preferred expensive casual: a soft cotton, open-necked blue shirt and cream chinos, hand-worked leather loafers. Yet on his wrist a plain, fifty-dollar watch with a leather strap and a black face.

  “This doesn’t go unpunished, Lexi,” he said, calm now. His anger had burned off and a cold, calculating mood sat in its place. “We’ll get our revenge, but we’ll take our time. If we go after Marchinski like a street gang, this will turn into a bloodbath. I don’t want that. If it’s forced on us we won’t turn away, but until then, let’s consider.”

  Bulin nodded. “What’re your thoughts? Start with some short, sharp hits just to let Marchinski know we’re still on the ball?”

  “Exactly. But first get some of our boys on the streets. Check things out. See if there are more of Marchinski’s people around than normal. Let’s put our ears to the ground and listen. Someone has to know something.”

  “I’ll get some of the guys to spread some cash around. See what the snitches have picked up.”

  Tsvetanov nodded. “I’ll leave that in your hands, Lexi. In the meantime, I need to talk to Dushka. Have a replacement consignment organized and find a new place to store it.”

  Bulin made for the door.

  “Have the kitchen send in some breakfast,” Tsvetanov called.

  The door closed behind Bulin, leaving Tsvetanov alone in the silent office. He sat for a moment, considering. It had been a bad start to the day, but he needed to look ahead. In the long run, Marchinski may have done him a favor. The confrontation that had been simmering in the background looked as if it was about to erupt. That would mean a busy time ahead. Leopold Marchinski, lounging in his jail cell while his mob ran around doing his bidding, was about to have another problem heaped on his shoulders.

  Drago Tsvetanov had built up his organization from nothing. In Moscow he’d worked for his Uncle Vassily, eventually taking over the family business. But Tsvetanov had always wanted to go to America, and ten years ago he had achieved that ambition.

  Once he’d arrived, Tsvetanov organized his own team, surrounding himself with loyal and smart people. Tsvetanov expanded whenever
an opening occurred—there was nothing he would not handle if it promised financial rewards. His childhood in Russia had been deprived, with little money and poor living conditions; he vowed never to let himself suffer those things again. Already wealthy when he moved to the U.S., Tsvetanov’s fortunes expanded greatly. Moving into drugs and prostitution helped. And when he eased into human trafficking, he realized he’d found his place in the sun.

  He surrounded himself with the best lawyers money could buy, and they worked unceasingly on his behalf. An oft-quoted saying had proved true—in America, money could buy anything.

  Tsvetanov was aware his business required a ruthless attitude. There was no avoiding the fact that violence was an integral part of his life. It was needed to keep unruly people in line, and that applied to his own men as well as rivals or clients who stepped over the line. He’d never been repelled by violence. Tsvetanov himself had used force when necessary. It gave him a feeling of power...close to pleasure. That feeling of dominance over another human being was as exciting as a drug rush.

  But for all his brutality, Tsvetanov had never allowed himself to be compromised...which brought his thoughts back to Leopold Marchinski. The man had slipped badly by letting himself be caught on camera as he handed out a savage beating. True, the man had attempted a clumsy robbery. Stealing from his employer and getting caught had been inexcusable. Marchinski’s own mistake had been beating the man to death with a baseball bat in full view of security cameras. It had landed Marchinski in a cell, awaiting trial, and it was a given he would be convicted.

  Tsvetanov was pleased to have Marchinski locked away. They were rivals. Marchinski even had a similar history to Tsvetanov; he was as close to being a clone as was possible without genetic connections. His organization operated in the same businesses, and while there were ample opportunities, the two men resented each other strongly.

  It had been a shock when Bulin had informed him that the man behind the attack on the warehouse appeared to be working on behalf of Marchinski. It was a slap in the face. One he could not—would not—ignore.