Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton
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 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 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.
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