Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton

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