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.

If Bolan was going to make sure the mobster stayed behind bars, he needed a way to get to the Marchinskis—something he could use to rattle their cage. He wanted to give them something to focus on apart from their scheme to free Leo. To do that, Bolan needed information on their setup, their bases.

It didn’t take him long to find a solution to that problem.

Chapter 3

Trenton, New Jersey

Harry Jigs had no love for either Leopold Marchinski or his rival, Dragomir Tsvetanov. The fifty-six-year-old small-time hustler was no saint, but he considered himself at least human compared to the larger crime syndicates.

The sparring organizations had spoiled life for a number of lesser criminals as they gathered up the city districts. Low-level outfits either sold out to the bigger groups or were swept aside. A number of Jigs’s friends, working similar low-key deals, had tried to fight back, but they’d failed, and in some instances forfeited their lives. People disappeared. Sometimes their bodies turned up on vacant lots or were found floating in the water. The message eventually sank in and resistance fell to the wayside.

Jigs had seen the writing on the wall so he’d left the game. He’d salted away enough money to live above the breadline. He had no family to support and he didn’t own a car or a house—he lived in the same cramped apartment he’d rented for years. Jigs was a survivor. These days, he added to his savings by peddling information. Nothing grand. Just small stuff he picked up from keeping his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut.

One of Jigs’s best customers was a man named Matt Cooper. Jigs knew very little about the man, apart from his direct and unapologetic manner. Cooper was honest and without any kind of hidden agenda. He might have been a cop, or even some kind of Federal operative. Whatever his profession, Cooper paid well for information.

And Jigs was in desperate need of a payday. Sitting in his favorite coffee shop, Jigs perched stiffly on the bench seat, facing the window. Scanning the sidewalk outside, Jigs saw nothing to alarm him. Just people passing by, going about their business. It seemed like an ordinary day. Jigs hoped it stayed that way.

He spotted Cooper as the man walked past the window and turned in at the door. Cooper stopped at the counter to order a drink, then joined Jigs at his table, slipping onto the bench alongside him.

“Been a while, Mr. Cooper,” Jigs said. His hand trembled slightly until he realized and clenched his fingers.

Matt Cooper stared out the window. The first drops of rain hit the glass and slid down.

“Harry, I remember you had trouble a few years back with Marchinski and Tsvetanov. You still want a chance to get back at them?”

Jigs had time to consider the question as Cooper’s coffee was brought to the table. He waited until the server had walked away before he spoke.

“Now that’s a hell of a way to start a conversation.”

“I could ask how you are or talk about the weather, if that’s what you want.”

Jigs gave a short chuckle. “Or you could shoot straight to the point.”

“I need a way to get at Marchinski’s mob—through Tsvetanov, if possible.”

Jigs listened, his face immobile as he absorbed Cooper’s words. Almost from the word go, he was interested. Anything that might aggravate the organizations was good in Jigs’s book.

“This liable to lead back to me?” he asked. “You know what those assholes are like.”

“I just need you to point me in the right direction, Harry. I’m looking for locations where they might have an operation going on, a few names I can zero in on. No one needs to know where my information came from.”

Jigs smiled.

He slid a ballpoint pen from his pocket and began to write, filling a paper napkin with information and talking as he wrote. Once he was finished, Jigs drained his coffee and watched Cooper pick up the napkin and glance at it before tucking it away in his pocket.

“Covers both sides,” Jigs said. “Hit any of those locations and you hurt them where it matters.”

“Thanks, Harry. That’s all I need.” Cooper drew a folded envelope from his pocket and passed it to the man under the table. “Buy yourself a steak dinner.”

From the thickness of the envelope, Jigs realized he’d be able to buy himself a plentiful supply of steaks and a private table to go with them.

Cooper stood, dropping a ten-dollar bill on the table. “For the coffee,” he said. “You watch your back.”

“I’ll do some more checking,” Jigs said. “See what else I can dig up.”

“No risks, Harry. Just take it easy,” Bolan said. “There’s a cell number on the inside of the envelope. You can contact me if anything comes up.”

“Okay.”

“Remember what I said. Don’t go out on a limb.”

“You got it,” Jigs said.

Cooper walked out of the coffee shop, turning up his collar against the rain as he stepped out onto the street. A moment later he was gone. And Jigs was on his own once again.

* * *

MACK BOLAN MADE his way back to his SUV. He sat for a moment, listening to the rain drum on the roof, his mind working as he selected one of the locations on Jigs’s napkin. He took out his cell and called Stony Man Farm, greeting Barbara Price when she answered. He gave her the information from Jigs and asked for details on the first location. He also asked for photo ID of organization members, if possible.

“Have Bear check police files. They might not have been convicted but I’m pretty sure most of the perps have been pulled in over the years, so there’ll be mug shots.”

“I’ll have everything downloaded to your cell.”

“That’s good,” Bolan said. He read out the rest of the information Jigs had given him. “Same with these.”

“You planning a vacation?” Price asked.

“No. Just working on targets.”

Price didn’t reply instantly. “Be safe, Striker. There are people here who care about you.”

“That works both ways,” Bolan said before ending the call.

As he fired up the SUV, he heard his phone ping. That would be his first information feed from Stony Man. He checked the download, then drove to the motel he was using as a temporary base.

Bolan parked outside his unit, grabbed a large carryall from the SUV and took it inside. He dropped the bag onto the bed and unzipped it. Along with some changes of clothing, Bolan had brought a selection of weapons to add to the Beretta 93R he was already wearing. He checked his supplies then crossed the room to make some coffee.

It was the same in a thousand motels across the country—an electric kettle, a couple of mugs and a supply of sachets holding coffee, tea and small cartons of sterilized milk. Bolan wasn’t in the mood to find a diner, but he needed some caffeine and the comparative privacy of the anonymous room. He filled the kettle and set it to boil.

His cell pinged again. Bolan sat on the edge of the bed and scanned the information Aaron Kurtzman and the Stony Man cyber team had compiled.

Marchinski and Tsvetanov were both hotheaded thugs with the delusion they were invincible. They ran their organizations along predictable lines—working in the basest criminal theaters and using violence, intimidation and bribery. As he moved down the list, Bolan realized the organizations operated in every possible illegal trade: drugs, prostitution, theft, pornography and human trafficking.

Bolan’s water had boiled, so he made a quick mug of coffee and kept going through the data. Jigs had supplied the bare bones and Kurtzman had fleshed out all the details, giving Bolan enough ammunition to bring Executioner fury down on the crime syndicates.

Bolan’s main concern was retrieving Abby Mason alive and well, but his forays against Marchinski and Tsvetanov would add a sweetener to his strikes.

Disrupting the lives of Marchinski and Tsvetanov would take the spotlight off Abby—even if it was only for a short time—and that breather would allow Bolan to work his way through the organizations, removing some of their top men while he found out where the girl was being held.

Chapter 4

Trenton, New Jersey

Harry Jigs’s information was proving out.

The Tsvetanov warehouse was one of many in an old industrial park on the fringes of Trenton. It was late afternoon by the time Bolan cruised through the worn-down area, taking in the shabby buildings and storage facilities. A couple of expensive cars were parked alongside one storage area; they were high-end models that looked out of place behind a sagging wire fence.

Bolan rounded the west side of the yard—easing the SUV along a narrow service road—and parked at the far end, angling the vehicle so he’d have an easy exit. Kurtzman had sent an aerial view of the neighborhood, allowing Bolan to check out available escape routes.

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 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.

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.

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.

Chapter 6

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 at Stony Man Farm forced Bolan to assume a new role in covert operations. These days he had an arm’s-length relationship with the government. He often worked with Brognola when missions for the President dovetailed with missions he would have undertaken eventually. But he still worked his own agenda and chose the targets he saw as needing his intervention. He placed himself in danger every time he stepped out of the shadows, proving to Brognola his dedication to protecting the people who were helpless against the onslaught of evil.

Now that Bolan had set his sights on the mobster, Marchinski, and by default, Tsvetanov, would be brought to their knees. Brognola had no doubts about that. Larry Mason’s daughter would be the focal point in Bolan’s maneuvers, but tearing down the mobs would be a consequence of that mission. Bolan would create havoc as he moved inexorably toward his goal. He could do nothing else.

Names and faces changed. Mack Bolan’s ongoing war against evil never wavered.

Hal Brognola sat behind his desk at Stony Man, preparing for the havoc that would come now that the Executioner was once again on the offensive.

* * *

HARRY JIGS HAD provided Bolan with the location of one of Marchinski’s businesses. Stony Man had given Bolan more specifics and the soldier was ready to make his move.

The Shake A Leg club was a cover for one of Marchinski’s trafficking operations. Topless women and lap dancing, though legal, were the dubious attractions that brought in the customers. They gathered around the bar and paid for expensive drinks so they could watch the listless performances, while in the basement the club’s real business operated in squalid anonymity.

The victims of the trafficking trade were kept in guarded cells. Confused and disoriented, they had no idea where they were or what awaited them. Young women snatched from their home soil and transported to America, they were watched over and ill treated if they made any kind of protest. Eventually, they would be auctioned off, sometimes singly or sometimes in batches, dependent on what individual purchasers required. The only certainty was their fate, which would be light-years away from whatever they might have been promised—likely prostitution or forced labor. It might be the twenty-first century, but for these hapless individuals, it might as well have been the Victorian era. A number of these women would be given drugs to draw their minds from the pitiful conditions they were now experiencing; it was simply a way to draw them even deeper into the darkness of their new lives.

Harry Jigs had told Bolan about the club during their meet as an extra fillip of information. He’d made it obvious that Marchinski was covered by people on the take, which was why the frequent influx of covert trafficking was overlooked. Money, Jigs said, changed hands on a number of levels, covering the operation from interference.

The Shake A Leg club stood on a slice of open ground, a less-than-glamorous building with a gaudy frontage and bare brick and plaster walls on the other three sides. The front of the club was dark at this hour, the neon display switched off. Bolan had parked a couple of streets away and made his silent way through the rain to the rear of the club. At this hour, only a few vehicles were pulled up close to the back wall.

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