Maximum Chaos. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ