Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton
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.
With his main rival behind bars, Tsvetanov had the best chance to make a decisive strike. It needed some thought. Once started, gang war was likely to be bloody and savage.
* * *
LEOPOLD MARCHINSKI SAT patiently waiting for his lawyer to arrive. He was seated at the steel table in an interview room, his cuffed hands attached to a short chain manacle fixed to the top of the table. He wore prison garb—a bright orange jumpsuit that had the penitentiary logo printed across the back and his inmate number on the front. Marchinski hated the prison uniform. It was baggy, made of coarse material and had that institutional smell he despised. Even though he’d been in jail for almost five months, he still couldn’t get used to it.
Marchinski, though, was a man blessed with great patience. He’d known from day one that he wasn’t about to get out of this easily, so he’d sucked it up and become a model prisoner. He had planned to stay that way until it suited him to change.
And now he wanted change.
He wanted out of jail.
Marchinski was no caged animal. He needed his freedom, but he understood the position he was in. The authorities had shown him the video of him slaughtering Jake Bixby, and there was no denying he’d done it. The image on the recording was clear and sharp. No doubts. The camera had faithfully taped the brutal crime—every terrible, final, bloody minute of Bixby’s life. Even his high-priced lawyer, Jason Keppler, had told him his position was dicey. The evidence could not be argued against. Marchinski was a career criminal who had escaped justice for a long time. This was the prosecution’s chance to lock him up for the maximum term, and they were not about to pass on the opportunity. Marchinski was theirs.
In retrospect, Marchinski knew he’d been foolish. Bixby needed to be punished, to be made into an example. The mistake had been acting on a wild impulse. Marchinski should have dealt with Bixby quietly, under controlled circumstances, rather than attacking hog wild. Pent-up fury had led Marchinski straight to a jail cell.
Marchinski understood that. He was looking at a lot of jail time—too much for someone like himself. If he survived he’d be an old man when he came out.
He had two ways to go.
Kill himself—an option he’d seriously considered for five full seconds.
Or manipulate his way out of jail.
Getting out wouldn’t be easy and once he did, he’d have to leave the U.S. and move somewhere where the authorities couldn’t touch him. He could live with that. There were countries with no extradition treaties, and with his money he could live high wherever he chose.
The first step was getting out from behind the prison walls. It would have to be a well-orchestrated escape. So Marchinski had spent his empty days working on various schemes and rejecting them all until he came up with the one that had been put into action.
The kidnapping of Larry Mason’s young daughter.
Mason, the man directly responsible for Marchinski’s incarceration. The state’s prosecutor who seemed to have made it his personal crusade to lock Marchinski away for the rest of his natural life.
Marchinski had discussed the idea with his brother over a number of visits. Gregor had gone for the idea the moment it had been explained to him. He might have blurted it out loud if Marchinski had not calmed him down, making him realize the serious nature of the discussion.
Over a couple more visits, Marchinski had detailed what the scheme would involve. Gregor had added embellishments of his own and after almost a month, they were ready to make their move.
Simple enough in theory.
Marchinski’s people would kidnap Mason’s daughter from the man’s isolated weekend lodge and kill the child’s nanny as an indication of intent. Mason would be told and given a deadline. Free Marchinski, or lose his daughter. It was a bold move, with no guarantee of success. Mason loved his child—his only link with his dead wife—but Marchinski was taking a gamble.
The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. But just as the scheme got underway, Marchinski had heard from one of his lawyers that a hard strike had taken place on Tsvetanov’s turf. Three of Tsvetanov’s men had been killed and one of his stash houses burned to the ground with expensive cargo inside.
For a brief time, Marchinski’s attention was drawn to the incident. He couldn’t figure out who had carried out the hit. There was no other crew large enough to take on Tsvetanov, and he didn’t believe it was the work of any law force. That wasn’t the way they operated, although it was something they dreamed about. The matter gave Marchinski something to think about when he returned to his cell; he’d ordered his lawyer to instruct his crew to check the incident out.
Later, as he slumped on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, his mind refused to move on from what had happened to Tsvetanov. Any pleasure he had initially experienced faded quickly. It was replaced with a faint but growing concern over the matter. He found he was unable to dismiss it completely. It skittered around the fringes of his thoughts—in the background but never far away. If Tsvetanov had been targeted, what had it got to do with him?
He remembered a line from an old musical show. The one they made into a movie with that bald actor—Yul Brynner.
It’s a puzzlement.
Stony Man Farm
Bolan had Brognola on the line, and he was filling him in on his foray into Tsvetanov territory.
“You really think this is going to work, Striker?” the big Fed asked.
“Having Marchinski and Tsvetanov at each other’s throats should ease the pressure on Mason a little,” Bolan said. “Marchinski will be getting reports from his people about what’s happened, and he’ll be getting uptight because he’ll figure Tsvetanov will start hitting back. He’ll be focused on making sure his people are ready for anything Tsvetanov might do. That gives us a little breathing space. Just make sure Mason does his part. Make it look as if he’s working on Marchinski’s release.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“So do I,” Bolan said. “A nine-year-old’s life depends on me working this right. Getting Marchinski and Tsvetanov to hammer each other senseless is a bonus. These bastards are due for a big fall.”
“Try not to raze the town to the ground while you’re doing it,” Brognola said. “You have a habit of creating expensive black holes.”
“That must be the other guy,” Bolan said.
“Oh, yeah. The one who wears tights and a cape. So what next?”
“A nudge in Marchinski’s direction,” Bolan said. “Something to draw his attention.”
Brognola sighed. He knew what that meant. Trouble for the Marchinski mob. News would filter back, and it would tell him the Executioner was doing what he did best.
In the past, Hal Brognola had done his best to stop Bolan. In that distant era, Bolan was considered a menace to society, an out-of-control killer wreaking his own kind of justice on the criminal fraternity. Every law-enforcement agency in America was hunting Bolan. But as time revealed Bolan was not a wild killer, but a man on a mission to eradicate the evil that was terrorizing the nation, even Brognola began to see that Bolan was a force for good.
In the end, the President had invited Bolan to come on board and work with the administration. Successive Presidents had been made aware of the covert regime occupying the Stony Man facility. The need for the Commander in Chief to have a surgical strike unit within reach had remained constant. Bolan and Stony Man had proved time and again they were needed.
A major incident