Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton

      “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,