Maximum Chaos
LIFE SENTENCE
Desperate to escape conviction, the head of a powerful crime family orders the kidnapping of a federal prosecutor’s young daughter. If the mobster isn’t freed by the end of the week—if anyone contacts the authorities—the girl will be killed. Backed into a corner, her father must rely on the one man who can help: Mack Bolan.
Finding the girl won’t be easy; the mob has tight security and their network is vast. Plus, with an innocent life at stake, going in guns blazing is a risk Bolan can’t afford to take. His only choice is to create a distraction by pitting the crime syndicate against their rivals. The mob is about to get a visit from the Executioner. And this time he’s handing out death penalties.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving a going-away gift for your boss.” Bolan held up 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 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. 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.”
Maximum Chaos
Don Pendleton
The battlefield is a scene of constant chaos. The winner will be the one who controls that chaos, both his own and the enemy’s.
—Napoleon Bonaparte
The forces of chaos cannot be controlled, not by any man. But chaos can be fought, and I will continue to fight as long as innocent lives are on the line.
—Mack Bolan
The MACK BOLAN Legend
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Introduction
Title Page
Quotes
The Mack Bolan Legend
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Copyright
Chapter 1
The man’s voice had been electronically altered, giving it a harsh metallic sound.
“Listen without interruption, Mr. Mason. By now you will realize your daughter has been taken. At this moment in time, she is unharmed. Whether she stays that way is entirely up to you. To ensure the safe return of young Abigail, you must negotiate the release of Leopold Marchinski. You have one week to carry out this request. If Marchinski is not a free man at midnight on the final day, your daughter will die. You may speak now. Do you have questions?”
Mason’s throat had all but seized up. He fought back the utter panic that threatened to render him dumb and forced himself to take control of his emotions and deal with the caller by asserting a degree of calm.
“You took my child, damn you. Wasn’t that enough? Why kill Nancy?”
“Yes, the fair Miss Cleland. She put up such a struggle defending your daughter. As to her death...it demonstrates that we are in earnest. If you fail to have Marchinski released on the due date, your daughter dies. Imagine little Abby being killed in a similar manner to Nancy Cleland. Our people, though crude, are effective. Bear that in mind.”
“Tell me my daughter is...”
“I hope you were not about to say safe. Abigail is not in a safe environment. That is the whole reason for this call.”
Mason gathered his thoughts before he spoke.
“For all I know, she may already be dead. Unless you prove she’s alive I have no reason to carry on this conversation. Show me proof before we go any further.”
“I can see why you are a successful negotiator, Mason.”
“Then negotiate this,” Mason snapped, feeling sweat pop out across his face as he pushed the boundaries. “Abby is all you have to bargain with. So prove to me she’s still alive or I put this phone down now. If you expect me to play your sick game I’ll need real-time proof, regularly, that she’s alive.”
“And if I refuse? What then?”
“Then Marchinski takes whatever comes to him and I lose my daughter. Simple enough for you to understand.”
“A bluff.”
“You think so? Try me. I’m in a corner. I have to do whatever it takes.”
The silence hurt. Mason wondered whether he had overplayed his hand. But he had no choice.
“Contact will be made, so keep your cell handy. Just remember we have the girl. Two hours from now, you’ll have your proof.”
“Wait,” Mason said, “how do you expect me to free Marchinski? He’s in confinement. On twenty-four-hour watch. I can’t simply walk in and lead him out by the hand.”
“You’re a man of great influence in the justice system. Make it happen.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Then your daughter will die in one week. The math is simple. No Marchinski—no Abigail.” A pause, then, “And please don’t involve the authorities. No police. No FBI. No one. Believe me when I say we have connections. Any attempt to involve assistance will mean Abigail suffers. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and make a call. Abigail will die before anyone gets near us. Please do not make the mistake of treating me like a fool. You saw what happened to Nancy. Keep that image in your mind. Think about your daughter.”
“How can I—”
“Make contact? You can’t, but I can call you at any time. Your cell. Your house phone. We can listen to any call you make.”
Mason wasn’t sure that was a genuine threat. On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to take the chance.
“I need time.”
“I can hear your mind working, Mason. How can I get around this? How do I beat it? A word of advice—do not even try. Concentrate on freeing Marchinski. That is the most important thing in your life right now. That and keeping your daughter alive. Seven days, Mason.”
The call ended.
A simple click, and Mason was left holding a silent phone.
* * *
HE SAT WITH the dead phone in his hand, staring out the living-room window, seeing nothing as he replayed the conversation over and over.
The man was not fooling. When Mason had driven to the lodge and walked inside, he’d found the butchered body of the young woman he employed to look after Abby.
Nancy Cleland had been 25 years old, a raven-haired British woman who’d worked for Mason for three years. Her body had been reduced to a bloody mass of torn and slashed flesh. Every finger on her hands had been broken and twisted out of shape. Someone had killed her in a terrible way—something Mason could never have imagined in his worst nightmare. The plastic sheet she lay on was pooled with blood.
Mason couldn’t remember how long he’d stood there—his back against the door, his gaze fixed on the dead woman. When the spell broke, he went from room to room, calling out Abby’s name. He searched the entire lodge. Abby was not there. Tears ran down his face as he went to call the police. That was when he saw an envelope taped to the phone.
Inside the envelope were two items.
The first was a Polaroid photo of his daughter, taken in the same room where Nancy’s body now lay. In the picture, Abby was sitting in one of the chairs, staring at the camera. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide with shock.
The second item was a folded sheet of paper. When Mason unfolded it, he read the handwritten note—
We have Abby. If you tell anyone, she will die. Secure the lodge, go home and wait for a call. Now.
Mason had never felt this helpless. He was a federal prosecutor with the power of the legal machine at his fingertips. Now he was on his own. As much as he needed his daughter back alive and well, he understood his responsibility to the law.
Leopold Marchinski was the head of a criminal organization. He sentenced men to death as easily as ordering a pizza. His criminal empire, spread across the eastern seaboard, was involved in countless illegal enterprises. Nothing was too depraved if it brought in money.
Marchinski had the best legal protection available. He was an old-time hoodlum writ large, reveling in his status as an untouchable. The man seemed to have everyone in his pocket—from lowly street cops to members of the judiciary.
For once, Marchinski had stepped over the line. He’d been caught on camera personally eliminating an employee. It was an error brought on by the man’s arrogance—his contempt for the law—and it had marked him down for retribution through due process.
Larry Mason had inherited the case, and he was determined to see Marchinski sentenced and imprisoned. Mason had been after the mobster for a long time. He’d weathered the threats and the intimidation up to this moment.
Now he faced the one thing he couldn’t accept—the death of his daughter. Abigail, the bright star in his life. Mason’s wife had died of cancer two years after the child was born. Abby was all he had left. She was nine years old, a beautiful girl who’d inherited her mother’s looks and intelligence. Everything Mason did was for his daughter.
He was trapped in an impossible position.
Did he sacrifice his child by refusing to bend to Marchinski’s demands?
Or go against everything he stood for and use his position and power to attempt the release of a vicious, unrepentant killer?
Mason had always prided himself on being able to master any situation. But he had no idea how to deal with this nightmare.
He left the house, climbed into his car and drove. The use of his landline and even his cell phone was out of the question. So he headed to the closest shopping center. Mason parked and walked into the mall, taking an escalator to the uppermost floor, where a bank of pay phones was adjacent to the food court. He dialed a number he hadn’t called for some time and waited.
“Hal, it’s Larry. I need your help. Can we meet? The place where we told you Heather was pregnant. That’s right. An hour? See you then.”
* * *
Washington, D.C.
THE PARK WAS nearly deserted. A sudden rainstorm had cleared the wide swathes of grass and trees. Mason slipped on a long waterproof coat and jammed an old ball cap over his hair. As he crossed the lot, he picked out his friend’s broad-shouldered form waiting under the branches of the massive oak. Mason crossed the grass and came face-to-face with his old friend.
“Larry, what’s this all about?” Hal Brognola asked.
Struggling to keep his emotions under control, Mason explained what had happened. Brognola listened, his face betraying his own shock at hearing that Abby—his goddaughter—had been kidnapped. When Mason finished, Brognola was silent for long moments.
Mason’s cell rang. He glanced at his watch and saw the two hours were up. His tormentors were nothing if not punctual.
“Hal, don’t speak. We need to keep this silent.”
Brognola nodded. Mason pressed a key and took the call.
The screen brightened into a video of Mason’s daughter, holding up a newspaper. The print was clear, and Mason could read the current date beside the paper’s headline. Abigail’s eyes were wide in agitation as she stared directly at the camera. Behind the child was a blank wall.
The electronic voice said, “Tomorrow morning, you’ll get the same proof. Just remember, time is running out.”
The image jerked briefly and the screen went blank. Mason stared at it for a while, saying nothing.
“Okay,” Brognola said. “We keep this between ourselves. No agency involvement. Marchinski might have contacts within the law community.”
“How do we handle it, Hal? I have seven days to turn Marchinski loose. If I don’t, Abby dies. I know the man. He’ll do it just to prove a point, even if he doesn’t get out. I want her back, but how can I justify freeing an animal like Marchinski?”
Brognola cleared his throat. “Larry, do you trust me?”
“Hell, yes. There’s no question. Why do you think I came to you, Hal?”
“Then turn around and go home. Go to work in the morning as you normally do. For now, we play Marchinski’s game. Let them believe you’re working on his release. Lie through your teeth if you have to. Just keep him dangling.”
* * *
MASON FELT THE hours slipping away. The days counting down to the death of his daughter.
He didn’t regret contacting Hal Brognola. The man was more than just a friend. They had known each other for over fifteen years. Brognola breathed the concepts of law and justice. He was a dependable, smart man, whom Mason trusted without a shadow of a doubt.
Even so, Mason couldn’t help wondering if this was out of Hal Brognola’s scope.
He returned to his house and switched on his laptop, bringing up the extensive file on Marchinski. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, whether any of the pages of information could suggest some way he could outmaneuver the man.
After an hour, he pushed to his feet and went to the kitchen. He forced himself to prepare a pot of coffee, the smell of freshly ground beans failing to work their usual magic. Mason waited while the coffee percolated, and when it was ready he filled a mug and stood over it, distracted by the thoughts churning through his mind.
Who was he kidding?
This wasn’t going to work. Not even Hal Brognola could return Abby unhurt.
“Is there enough in that pot for one more mug?”
The voice, coming from behind him, was strong and firm, and it had a quality Mason found uplifting.
He turned and saw the man standing a few feet behind him. Relaxed. Confident.
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, had just joined the fight.
Chapter 2
“Hal told me about your problem,” the stranger said. “Let’s see if we can figure out a solution.”
Mason found himself filling a second mug and sliding it across the kitchen counter.
“Matt Cooper,” the man said by way of introduction.
He was tall, Mason saw. Over six feet and dark-haired. Cooper’s eyes were an intense shade of blue, and he studied Mason with an unflinching gaze. He was well built, but there was a relaxed grace to his movements. Dressed in black, Cooper wore a thin leather jacket, unzipped, so that when he turned Mason spotted the shoulder-holstered auto pistol.
“I was told not to involve any...”
“You asked Hal for help. You told him not to bring in any official agencies.”
“You’re not a cop? FBI?”
Bolan smiled. “Only three people are in on this. You, Hal and me.”
“You work for Hal?” Mason asked.
“I work with Hal, but you won’t find my name on any official databases, and I don’t carry a badge.”
Mason sat back on one of the kitchen stools.
“You must figure I’m ungrateful. Suspicious.”
“Larry, I’d be worried if you weren’t.”
“The guy who called threatened to murder Abby if I brought in outside help.”
“He wants you so scared you’ll do everything he demands.”
“Like releasing Marchinski?” Mason shook his head. “His people overestimate my influence. It isn’t in my power.”
“Then we need to get your daughter back before the deadline.”
“How?”
“That’s my part of the deal. Yours is to stall Marchinski’s people. They have to believe you’re attempting to free him. I don’t care how you do it, but keep them believing. If Marchinski has people in the system, we have to give them something to pass back to the organization.”
Mason nodded. “I’ll work something out.” He stared at Bolan. “Can we do this, Mr. Cooper?”
“To get Abby back we have to. And it’s Matt,” he said. “Hal told me how you forced the caller into updating you about Abby. That was a good move. It pushes the responsibility back into their hands. They have to keep Abby alive and keep proving it to you.”
“I had no other ideas on how to handle things.”
“You did great. Now it’s my turn to push them.”
“Do I need to know how you’re going to do it?”
Bolan drained his mug of coffee. “Better you don’t.”
“I understand.”
“Whatever happens, the Marchinski organization is going to have a bad week. They chose the rules for this game, so they can take the hits.”
The implication behind Bolan’s words was not lost on Larry Mason. But these were the men who’d killed Nancy Cleland and kidnapped his daughter.
“Is there anything I can do to help? I can’t even give you an idea of who this caller is. The voice was altered.”
“Get in touch with Hal. Tell him I suggested we try tracing this caller the next time he makes contact.” Bolan slipped a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Mason. “This is a prepaid burner. My number and Hal’s are already logged in. Nothing else. You need to tell me something or ask a question, I’m available anytime. If Hal calls it’ll be on this cell, as well. No one else will be able to get to you on this phone.”
Mason took the cell. “How do I say thank you?”
“When I see Abby back in your arms, that’ll be thanks enough.”
There was a framed photograph on the kitchen counter. A bright-eyed and attractive child smiling at the camera.
“Is that Abby?”
Mason nodded. “It was taken only a few weeks ago at a friend’s birthday party. Do you need it?”
“No. I’ll recognize her now.”
“Nine years old and she’s smarter than me sometimes. A week ago she won her Judo upgrade. Hal told you about Nancy, I guess? Abby’s nanny. I saw what they did to her, so I understand the kind of people we’re dealing with. I realize the danger my daughter is in.”
“Then you know how I need to handle this.”
Bolan turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving the house the same way he’d entered, through the rear door and across the garden. Mason didn’t attempt to follow. For the first time since the phone call from Abby’s kidnapper, he felt there might be a chance he would get her back alive and well.
* * *
BOLAN HEADED TOWARD his Chevy Suburban. There was no sign of anyone trailing him.
Marchinski’s people were not amateurs. His organization comprised violent, greedy individuals who ruled by fear. The deal they had set up with Mason was delicate, and they would want to make sure he was following the rules. Even so, keeping a close watch on Mason would be difficult for the mobsters. His neighborhood was upmarket, the houses secure. There would be regular security patrols and the neighbors would not tolerate unknown vehicles being parked in clear sight or strangers wandering by.
Reaching his vehicle—which was parked on a feeder road at the far side of the residential estate—he keyed the lock release and slid behind the wheel. After hitting the start button, he wheeled the car away from the curb. Bolan drove until he spotted the shopping mall he’d seen on his way in. He swung into the parking lot and stopped the car. Bolan took out his cell and tapped in the speed-dial number for Brognola. It only took a brief time for the secure connection to be made, and Hal Brognola picked up.
“Striker,” Brognola said. “What do you think?”
“Mason is a good man. He doesn’t deserve this.”
“The real question is can we help him? We don’t have a great deal to go on here.”
“I’ve set him up with a clean cell, and I told him to contact you. Get Bear to fix it so any calls that go to his home or regular cell can be traced. We might get lucky and record a voice for analysis.”
Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman was head of the cybernetics team at Stony Man Farm. If anyone could track down Abby’s kidnapper, it would be Kurtzman.
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, I start to shake the organization’s tree. See what drops out of the branches. Marchinski and his brother, Gregor, want to play down and dirty. That suits me fine. Snatching that child has painted a target on every man who takes Marchinski’s money.”
“Should we expect some damage here?”
“Only for the organization. I need up-to-date information on the Marchinski crew—backgrounds, establishments and business rivals. I’m going to pay them all a visit.”
“All in hand,” Brognola said, and he gave Bolan a verbal rundown on Marchinski’s crime family.
Nothing was below the Marchinskis. Drugs. Slavery. Car theft. They were involved in the flesh trade, from street girls to expensive brothels. Then there were Marchinski’s suspected connections in law enforcement. The informers. The judges he had on his payroll.
Marchinski’s lawyer—Jason Keppler—handled all aspects of the Marchinski business consortium. Keppler was a slick operator who kept his client and his business in the clear. Keppler’s law firm, with its dedicated team of like-minded legal experts, made sure the law didn’t trouble their clients.
Until the moment Leo Marchinski made his fatal error. Executing one of his own, to prove his strength. Marchinski had been caught on not one, but two, cameras. The overwhelming evidence had fallen into police hands, and despite attempts to destroy it, the recordings had been secured. Mason had seen the tapes and found himself with enough proof to have Marchinski arrested and indicted. Not even Jason Keppler had been able to argue away the graphic images. There was no doubt who had pulled the trigger. Leo Marchinski was held in jail and charged with first-degree murder.